


The Detective Bride

by fireheart93



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, The Detective Bride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-24
Updated: 2011-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-23 00:42:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireheart93/pseuds/fireheart93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A remix of The Princess Bride. Heroes. Detectives. Psychopaths. Show downs. True Love. - Not just your basic, average, every day, ordinary, run-of-the-mill, ho-hum fairy tale. Based on the book and the film by William Goldman</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Detective (Part One)

**Author's Note:**

> This started when I was watching the film one day and wouldn't leave me alone until I'd written it. The beginning is very heavily influenced by the book (which I would definitely recommend). Big thanks to my beta Melitta for all her support, including listening to me ramble inanely.

The year that Sherlock Holmes was born, the most intelligent man in the world was Barry the Night Soil man, who emptied the toilet pits in castles all over the land. However, as no one ever came close enough to actually speak to him, no one ever realised this fact and he died of tuberculosis aged 32.

The year Sherlock turned ten the most intelligent man was an Indian named Velutha, and people travelled from far and wide to hear as he gave speeches on the mountain through the hot Indian summer. However, for all his intelligence, he forgot the dangers of spending all day in the sun and refused to wear a hat for fear it would ruin his hair. He survived the sunstroke; his mind did not.

When Sherlock was fifteen the most intelligent man in the world was not a man but a woman, named Ariadne Black, but God soon realised his mistake, made her change her name to Arthur and wear men’s clothing. The resulting identity crisis drove her to drink, until all that came out of her mouth were drunken ramblings about how much she loved everyone, which no one recognised as wise.

At fifteen, Sherlock was barely in the top twenty, and he was there almost purely on potential as his knowledge was eclectic to say the least. But he was unaware of any of this, and even if he had been he would never have understood it. Competition was boring, something the idiot population engaged in to prevent themselves from realising how utterly worthless they truly were. Sherlock had too great a confidence in his own intelligence to have any interest in competition; instead his greatest enjoyment came from his experiments, and his continual torment of the stable boy. His experiments were mostly chemical in nature, and they generally did what he expected them to do. The stable boy was also predictable. He was some years older than Sherlock, but Lady Holmes called him ‘boy’, and Sherlock did the same out of habit.  
“Stable boy, fetch my beaker”, “Stable boy, pass me the hydrochloric acid – quickly or I will inform mother.”  
“As you wish,” was all he ever answered, no matter how much Sherlock taunted him. He lived in the loft above the stables, kept it clean and read by candlelight in his limited spare time.

 

Shortly before his sixteenth birthday Sherlock realised it had been over a year since any of the boys from the village had spoken to him. This did not bother him as he found them all unutterably dull, but Mummy did worry so.  
“I do wish you would make an effort to make friends, Sherlock darling,” she said, loudly and often.  
“I don’t need friends, Mummy,” Sherlock would reply tiredly, “I have my experiments.”  
“Experiments cannot make you happy, darling.”  
“I beg to differ Mummy.” Sherlock’s exits varied in volume, but were never less than dramatic. It did not bother him when the boys refused to talk to him, or crossed the road to avoid him, or when they laughed at him from behind their hands, thinking he couldn’t see them. He was not even concerned when they congregated beneath his window, shouting insults up at him. If the insults became too damaging the stable boy would emerge from his loft and send the boys on their way with a few carefully measured words and a pitchfork held lightly in his left hand. Sherlock would lean out his window and order him back to his loft in lieu of thanks. “As you wish” was all the stable boy ever answered.

When Sherlock was almost seventeen Lord Michael Stamford was forced to spend the night at Holmes Manor due to a violent storm. He listened entranced as young master Holmes deduced his past history from his clothes, his horse and his haircut, before Lady Holmes told him to be quiet and eat his meal. This was not the first time Sherlock had done this, but it was the first time Sherlock had done so to a man of consequence. And it was Lord Mike Stamford, who first mentioned Sherlock to the Count.

The land of Baker Street was theoretically ruled by King Hudson and his second wife who, for reasons best known to her, refused to answer to the title Queen, instead calling herself Mrs Hudson. The King had an even looser grip on sanity, spending his days muttering to himself, said by some religious types to be a punishment for unspecified past crimes. He had two sons, Prince Moriarty and Prince Jim. His son by his first wife, Prince Moriarty, actually ran things, with Count Moran, the only Count in Baker Street as his sole confidant.

 

“Quick, quick, come,” from his position underneath the desk in the library, Sherlock heard one kitchen boy call to another.  
“What is it?” the other whispered, uncomfortable intruding into the family sanctum.  
“The Count and his entourage,” the first exclaimed. “Look at those horses.”  
“Look at that carriage,” the second overcame his discomfort and looked out of the window. “He must be on his way to meet the Prince, they hunt near here. We’re lucky to see him.” A shout floated up the stairs, the cook calling the boys back to their work. They ran out of the room and Sherlock followed at a more sedate pace, anticipating his mother’s summons. He descended the grand staircase and stood next to his tall, elegant mother in the entrance hall as the door was opened to allow the Count to enter.  
“Greetings, my Lady,” the Count said, bowing low.  
“Welcome, Count Moran,” Lady Holmes said, matching his bow with an equally low curtsey, “Our home is honoured by your visit.”  
“The honour is all mine,” the Count replied, taking Lady Holmes’ hand to raise her up. Formal etiquette satisfied, Lady Holmes turned to Sherlock.  
“This is my younger son, Sherlock Holmes. My elder son, Mycroft is the Miracle Man to the King, but of course you know that.” The Count nodded at Sherlock, meeting his eyes with a searching expression that made Sherlock uncomfortable. The silence stretched uncomfortably until Lady Holmes broke it by offering the Count tea. He acquiesced and she led him to the drawing room, while Sherlock slipped out of the front door into the cool evening air.

The sun was low on the horizon as Sherlock wandered around to the stables. He saw a group of girls gathered around the fence at the edge of the field behind the stables. Curious he picked up the pace until he could see what they were all staring at. It was the stable boy. He was exercising the Count’s charger, running it around the field on the end of a long rope. He was shirtless and Sherlock watched his muscles ripple beneath his skin, the sweat trickle down his back as he controlled the horse with calm and focus. Sherlock was distracted from his observation by the giggling of the girls at the fence and he scowled. The Count came to stand beside him.  
“Your mother was wondering where you were,” he said. “I offered to look for you.” He paused but Sherlock said nothing. He looked out onto the field. “He has skill, that boy. Titus barely tolerates to be touched by anyone except me, and yet your stable boy has made him docile as a kitten. What’s his name?” His tone didn’t match his words, and when Sherlock looked up he saw a hunger in the Count’s eyes that discomforted him. His reply was sharper than he intended.  
“John. John Watson.” The Count looked down on him and smiled his shark’s smile.  
“Come, Sherlock, walk with me.” He began to walk back to the Manor, Sherlock following reluctantly.  
“I have heard things about you, Sherlock,” the Count said. “I have heard you have a gift, that you can tell a person’s history from their clothing, their hair, their possessions.”  
“I can,” Sherlock replied confidently. The Count stopped.  
“Go on then, deduce me.” Sherlock paused for a moment, uncertain. Then he remembered the hunger in the Count’s eyes as he had looked at John and anger washed over him. He began to speak, revealing everything he could see, every secret, every dream with a viciousness he had never felt before. He stopped, suddenly nervous, but the Count just smiled his shark’s smile before walking away, leaving Sherlock behind him.

Sherlock watched as the Count returned to the Manor, until he became aware of a presence approaching. He turned and saw the stable boy leading the Count’s horse back to the stables.  
“Stable boy!” his mouth moved without his brain’s permission. The stable boy turned but did not speak.  
“I’m not happy with the state of my horse. I want you to clean him. Tonight. And his stable must be sparkling. If it takes all night, then it takes all night.”  
“As you wish,” the stable boy said. Sherlock nodded curtly, then turned on his heel and stormed back to the Manor.

 

After the Count had left Sherlock went up to his room, lay on his bed and closed his eyes. And the Count was staring at John.  
He got up, washed his face, changed into his pyjamas, got into bed and closed his eyes.  
The Count was still staring at John!  
He jumped out of bed, grabbed his violin and bow and threw himself into the music until his mother banged on his door and ordered him to stop. He dumped his violin onto his chair, marched back to his bed, climbed in and closed his eyes determinedly.  
The Count would not stop staring at John!  
Why? Why would the second most powerful man in all of Baker Street be interested in John? There was no mistaking the look in his eyes. He was interested. Facts were facts. But why? The stable boy had good teeth, but who cared about teeth? And his hair was an interesting shade if you like that sort of thing. His shoulders were broad and he was muscular, but that came from slaving all day. And his skin was beautifully tanned but again that came from slaving in the sun. He wasn’t even very tall, not as tall as Sherlock and certainly not as tall as the Count.  
Sherlock sat up in bed. It must be his eyes. The stable boy did have interesting eyes, like the calm before the storm. It couldn’t be anything else. The girls in the village came to watch the stable boy but he never said anything, because if he had they’d have realised that, despite his eyes, he really was incredibly dull. It was strange, a man as unusual as the Count should be so fascinated by the stable boy, but people were stupid when it came to sexual attraction. But now Sherlock had it all diagnosed, deduced, clear. He settled back down and closed his eyes.  
Now the stable boy was staring at the Count. He was exercising the horses and his muscles were rippling and Sherlock was watching as John stared deep into the Count’s eyes.  
Sherlock jumped out of bed and paced around the room. How could he? It was alright if the stable boy looked at him, but he wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at him! Sherlock stopped and sat back on the bed.  
“He’s so old,” he said, and that was a fact. He was arrogant as well, and that was also a fact. A cold wave of feeling rushed through Sherlock, and it took him ten minutes to work out what it was. The feeling was jealousy. Sherlock jumped up, snatched up his violin and dragged the bow across it, the discordance echoing the feelings crashing through him.

 

It was a very long night.

Sherlock was outside the stable before dawn. He could hear John was already awake. He knocked on the door. It opened, revealing John stood in the doorway, a lit candle and open books behind him. He waited. Sherlock looked at him. He waited. Sherlock looked away.  
John was too fascinating.  
“I love you,” Sherlock blurted. “I realise this must come as something of a surprise, since all I’ve ever done is order you about and belittle your intelligence, but I have loved you for several hours now and every second more. I thought an hour ago that I loved you more than I could possibly love anyone, but half an hour later I knew that what I had felt before was nothing compared to what I felt then. Ten minutes later I realised that as love is unquantifiable I could not measure it, which frustrated and thrilled me at the same time. Your eyes are like the calm before the storm, did you know? Well there it is.” Sherlock still couldn’t look at him. “I love you so much more now than twenty minutes ago that there cannot be any comparison. No scientist, not even I, can quantify what I feel; there is no room in my mind for anything but you. Do you realise how much that scares me? I cannot think without your image entering my head, I cannot reason without seeing your eyes in my mind. I want you out of my head, yet I cannot bear to be parted from you. I know I am not as powerful as the Count, I saw how you looked at him, but I am younger and far more intelligent, and for me there is only you. John – I’ve never called you that before – John, tell me you will end my torment and return my love.” And with that Sherlock Holmes did the bravest thing he had ever done: he looked right into John Watson’s eyes.  
John closed the door in his face.  
Without a word.  
Sherlock ran.


	2. The Detective (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read the last chapter, I hope you enjoy this one as much. The next update will be Tuesday as I'm going to be internet-less for the bank holiday weekend.

Sherlock stormed up to his room, slammed the door and snatched up his violin, making it scream his frustration. He had bared his heart and John had said nothing, not even ‘sorry’. Why couldn’t he have said something? And then it hit him. He said nothing because as soon as he opened his mouth he would remind Sherlock that he was just another dull member of the idiot population. Sherlock’s music began to calm, turning into a recognisable melody. Swift passions of this nature were all part of growing up; now Sherlock had got that out of the way he could return to his true path of intelligence over emotion. Sherlock put down his violin, washed his face and got dressed. Then he picked up the violin and started screeching again, because there is a limit to just how much you can lie to yourself even if you are a master of deception.  
John wasn’t boring.  
Oh Sherlock could pretend he was, pretend he was no different to all the other idiots in the village. But the truth was John had a brain that was just as fascinating as his eyes. There was a reason he had said nothing and it wasn’t because he was stupid. He hadn’t spoken because he had nothing to say.  
John didn’t love him back and that was that.

 

It was dusk when Sherlock heard footsteps outside his door. There was a knock. Sherlock put down the violin. Another knock.  
“Who’s there?” Sherlock finally called when it was clear whoever it was wasn’t going away.  
“John.”  
“Oh, come in I suppose,” Sherlock did his best impression of nonchalance. John opened the door and stepped in, but Sherlock began to talk before he could open his mouth. “I’m glad you arrived. Mummy told me I ought to apologise for the joke I played on this morning. Personally I don’t see the problem but one must keep Mummy happy. But of course, you shut the door so I knew you understood the impossibility of what I said actually being true.”  
“I’ve come to say goodbye.” Sherlock’s heart folded but he clung to his façade.  
“You mean good night, surely.”  
“No, otherwise I would have said that,” John said, emotion creeping into his tone for the first time. “I’m leaving.”   
“Leaving,” Sherlock repeated (he hated John briefly for reducing himself to repetition, but only for a second). “Now?”  
“Yes.”  
“Because of what I said?”  
“Yes.”  
“Well I suppose I can’t stop you. But if you leave then I will not take you back when he’s done with you.” Humour flickered across John’s face, and his eyes softened.  
“I’m going to medical school to become a Doctor. I have been studying in my loft every night and I passed the entrance exam last month. I’m going to become a Doctor, possibly a surgeon, and when I am I’m going to buy a flat with a bed big enough for two.”   
“I don’t think the Count cares what you do for a living.”  
“Stop talking about the Count! As a special favour. Before you drive me mad.”  
Sherlock stared at him.   
“Don’t you understand a thing I’ve been telling you?”  
Sherlock shook his head.  
“Has anyone ever told you you’re an idiot?”  
Sherlock shook his head again. John sighed and rubbed his eyebrow.  
“I love you, you idiot.”  
“Really?” Sherlock asked, unable to keep up with the rollercoaster his heart was on.  
“Yes,” John replied with fond exasperation. “The only reason I stayed in my loft for so long was because of you. I have spent my nights studying in the hope of making myself worthy of your notice. I have done all you asked of me because all I ever wanted was for you to be happy. And I lived in the hope that one day you would wake up and see me for what I am, rather than what everyone expects me to be. Is any of this getting through to you, Sherlock, or would you like me to carry on for a while.”  
“Never stop,” Sherlock breathed, stepping closer to John.  
“There has not been…”  
“If you are teasing me, John, I will make your life hell.”   
“How can you even think I would be teasing?”  
“You’ve never said anything before,” Sherlock said, pouting prettily.  
“But I did,” Sherlock tilted his head, the question in his eyes. “Every time you asked me to do something you thought I was answering ‘as you wish’, but I wasn’t. I was saying ‘I love you’, you just weren’t listening.”  
“But I am listening now,” Sherlock replied, voice low, “and I promise you this. I will never love anyone else, only my John, until the day I die.”  
“I will send for you as soon as I can,” John whispered, stepping away. “Do you trust me?”  
“Always,” Sherlock felt his heart swell.   
“It’s late. I have to go, I hate it but I must. The road is long.”  
“I know.”  
John stretched out his right hand.   
Sherlock couldn’t breathe.   
“Goodbye.”  
Sherlock raised his right hand to John’s.  
They shook.  
“Goodbye,” John said again.  
Sherlock gave a small nod.  
John stepped back, not looking away from Sherlock’s eyes.   
Sherlock watched him.  
John turned.  
And the words tore free from Sherlock’s heart.  
“Without one kiss?”  
They fell into each other’s arms.

 

There have been five great kisses since the invention of the kiss in 1642 BC (before then couples performed a sort of glorified high five manoeuvre). And the precise rating of kisses has always been an area racked with controversy and inter-departmental feuds, because although everyone agrees on the basic formula of purity times intensity times duration, no one can agree on exactly how much weight each element ought to be given, leading to some very tense Christmas parties. But on any system, there are five kisses that everyone agrees deserve full marks.

This one left them all behind.

 

On the first morning after John’s departure Sherlock believed himself entitled to remain in his bedroom all day, playing mournful melodies on his violin. After all, the love of his life had gone, his life was now meaningless, what was the point in getting dressed if his love was not there to see him, et cetera, et cetera.  
Then he realised that John was now out in the world, and what if he met some handsome, intelligent man while he was at home moping? Or, worse still, what if John sent for him, only to tell him that he had met someone smarter than him who was also a good man? Sherlock knew he was brilliant but how could he prove this to John? He put down his violin and hurried downstairs to the drawing room, where his mother was embroidering a tablecloth no one would ever use.  
“Mummy,” he said, “I need your advice. How can I go about proving how brilliant I am?”  
“Go to university, my dear,” she said. “Your Uncle Sheridan is a professor, and he has always said he would let you into his university to study chemistry. If you wish to prove your intelligence, go to university.”  
And so Sherlock did. He enrolled on a chemistry course and devoted himself to his studies. And his potential began very quickly to be realised. In six months he jumped to fifteenth, an unheard of change. In twelve he was already ninth and moving. Competition was difficult at that point but then he received a three page letter from John, which rekindled his devotion to his studies and he moved to eighth. Because it was John’s love that made him so determined to be better, which kept him in university for almost three years despite the boredom. He told no one about John but every time he thought of him, or received a letter from him, his heart would grow a little, reminding him of his purpose and pushing the boredom a little further away every time.

Which is why John’s death hit him the way it did.

He had written to Sherlock just before he left medical school for a work experience placement in a hospital on the coast. Then there were no more letters, but John was often silent for a few weeks when his workload grew too great. Then he heard. He visited his mother one Sunday, and she was locked in conversation with a messenger.   
“…surprise attack on the town, during the night,” the man was saying.”  
“Pirates?” his mother asked. The man nodded.  
“The pirate ship Revenge.”  
“Is he…” his mother began but did not finish. Sherlock tried to stay silent but his mother must have seen his reflection in the window, because she turned and looked at him, concern in her eyes.  
“Do not stop on my account,” Sherlock said coldly. “Ask the question.” His mother stayed silent. “If you will not ask then I will.” He turned to the messenger. “Is he dead? Is my John dead?”   
The messenger nodded.  
Sherlock felt the air leave the room.  
“It was the Dread Pirate Murray,” the messenger was saying, voice reaching Sherlock as if from the bottom of a well. “He is famous for taking no prisoners.” Sherlock said nothing.  
“Oh Sherlock, darling,” his mother began, reaching for him. He stepped back. Her arms fell to her sides. He turned and hurried out of the room.

 

He remained in his room for three days. His mother left food outside his door which he barely picked at. The sound which echoed around the Manor was not wailing or weeping. It was a hollow melody torn from the strings of a violin, haunting and empty, as if it was missing something and would never be whole until it was found. On the fourth day the music stopped. Sherlock emerged from his room with his eyes dry and his head held high. His mother went to hold him but he would not let her. He told her he was dropping out of university and she did not argue. In truth he had no more reason to attend. He had gone into that room as an impossibly brilliant man. The man that had emerged was a little thinner, a great deal wiser and an ocean sadder. He understood the precise mechanics of heartbreak, could measure pain and comprehend suffering.  
He was nineteen. He was the most intelligent man in a hundred years. He didn’t care.

“You are all right,” his mother said cautiously.  
“Fine,” Sherlock replied coldly.  
“You’re sure,” his mother pushed.  
“Yes,” Sherlock pushed back. “But I will never love again.”

He never did.


	3. The Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter, but it is in the book as well, so I don't feel too embarrassed. I'll update again to make up for it though. Thanks to everyone who reviewed or added this to story allert/favourites :D

Prince Moriarty was of average height, wiry, with dark hair and darker eyes. If he had wanted to be a ballet dancer he might have been fairly successful, though lifts would have been a struggle. But he did not want to be a ballet dancer. He didn’t much want to be King either; he was content to have the power of Prince Reagent without having to attend all the dull ceremonies. Even war, at which he excelled, was second place in his heart. Everything took second place in his heart.   
Hunting was his first love.  
He promised himself that he would never let a day go by without killing something. He had never yet broken that promise. Most days it was animals; he was famed far and wide for his hunting parties. But on some dark days no animals would be killed. Instead someone would quietly disappear from their prison cell, as if swallowed by the earth.

The Kingdom of Baker Street had no death sentence; every convicted criminal was put in prison. There was only one prison in the City, the Pit of Despair, which had been designed by the Prince himself, with the Count’s assistance, and really wasn’t like any other prison anywhere. There was only one guard, a woman named Sally Donovan, whom even the Prince was a little afraid of. The Pit was, as the name implies, entirely underground. It was built on five levels, each appropriate for the type of criminal it contained. On the first level were the petty criminals; small time thieves, liars and cheats. The second level contained the con men; lying salesmen, forgers and extortionists. Violent criminals were held on the third level; drunkards, armed robbers and wife-beaters. The fourth level was the domain of the most dangerous criminals; the assassins, the terrorists and the serial killers. Even Donovan avoided the fourth level.  
The fifth level was empty.  
The Prince had included it in the hope that he would one day find a criminal as dangerous as he was. This was unlikely, but he was ever the optimist, so the fifth level remained empty.  
Besides, the contents of the first four levels were enough to satisfy the Prince on his dark days, when killing a dumb animal just wasn’t enough to satisfy him. On those days he would spin a wheel with each of the four levels on, and Donovan would prepare a prisoner from the level it landed on.   
Most prisoners who entered the Pit of Despair left again at the end of their sentence, physically whole but mentally scarred, and never reoffended, minds echoing with the screams of those who entered the Arena and never came out. As a deterrent it worked, and it was what the Prince wanted. And whatever the Prince wanted was, of course, done without question.

 

He had a thief in the crosshairs of his rifle when the King’s fading health made him face his future. He had simply watched the thief for some hours, delighting in his desperate pleas for mercy and his fruitless attempts to climb the walls of the Arena. Finally he had gestured for his custom made hunting rifle, caressing it like a faithful lover before preparing his shot. He took a breath, rested his finger on the trigger, breathed out…  
“There is news, Sire,” Count Moran’s voice interrupted. The Prince heaved an impatient sigh.  
“Can’t it wait?”  
“For how long?” the Count asked.  
C  
R  
A  
C  
K  
The thief collapsed like a rag doll, mouth open in a soundless scream as his lifeblood stained the sand beneath him. The Prince stood and looked at the Count.  
“I hope this is worth it.”  
“Your father has had his annual physical,” the Count said, “I have the report.”  
“And”  
“Your father is dying.”  
“Damn!” said the Prince. “I suppose I’d better get married then.”


	4. The Courtship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has added this story to their favourites/alerts. Hope you enjoy this chapter, next update will be Friday.

Four people met in the throne room, Prince Moriarty, his confidante Count Moran, his father, the aging and dribbling King Hudson and his stepmother Mrs Hudson.  
“All right,” the Prince began, “who do I marry? Let’s pick a man and be done.”  
“It’s time Moriarty got married,” the King said, except he had been unable to do anything other than mumble for over a year now, so what actually came out of his mouth sounded more like “I teeee Morrty gmarrid.” Mrs Hudson was the only one who bothered listening to him anymore.  
“I know what you mean dear,” she said.  
“What did he say?” the Prince asked.  
“He said surely you ought to be looking for a Princess. You do need to produce an heir.”  
“But women are ridiculous,” the Prince protested, “Princesses even more so.”  
“Tell him I like Miracle Mycroft,” the King said, his grip on the conversation even looser than usual. It came out: “Tell mumble Mricle mumble.” The Prince looked to his stepmother for translation.  
“He says that, nevertheless, it is your duty as next in line to the throne to at least attempt to provide a male heir.” The Prince stood up, clearly about to storm out with even greater flair than usual. Count Moran spoke up.  
“Can I suggest a compromise?” Everyone nodded. The Prince sat down. “The King of Reichenbach is offering us his daughter, Princess Molly’s hand in marriage. She will arrive here next week. If he likes her then the Prince can marry her. If he does not then she can marry Prince Jim and you, your highness, will be free to choose a husband, as Prince Jim can produce an heir.” Everyone at the table nodded, content with the plan.  
“I just hope she’s interesting,” the Prince said. “I couldn’t bear to marry a boring person.”  
“I met her some years ago,” Mrs. Hudson mused. “She was very sweet. A bit odd though, spent a lot of her time in the castle morgue, but then women are so liberated these days, or at least that’s what everyone tells me.”  
“Hasn’t the King of Reichenbach offered his daughter,” said the King. It came out: “Muble Reiblle abumble mumle.”  
“You are never wrong, dear,” Mrs. Hudson smiled, petting her aging King’s arm.  
“What?” the Prince asked.  
“He said we ought to begin preparations for her arrival immediately.”  
“I suppose so,” the Prince sighed. “Mrs. Hudson, organise the feast, have her bedroom decorated and wash my best suit.” Mrs. Hudson stood.  
“I’m your stepmother dear, not your housekeeper,” she said proudly. But she did as he ordered. Everyone did.

 

A week later the Princess Molly of Reichenbach arrived. On her first night in the palace dinner was held in the Great Hall. At 8:23 everything was going smoothly. By 8:43 all hell had broken loose. What happened was simply this; at 8:23 the Prince invited the Princess Molly to sit beside him. She did so, tittering gently, causing the Prince to grit his teeth. At 8:24 he asked her about her interests, assuming she would talk about her time in the morgue. He was wrong. Instead she spent the next nineteen minutes talking about her cats. She had a lot of cats. By 8:42 the Prince had heard the name, appearance, personality and feeding preferences of exactly half of her cats. At 8:43 Prince Moriarty stood and said very coldly,  
“Madam, I don’t give a damn about your BLASTED CATS.” He turned and strode out of the room as the courtiers sat in stunned silence, Molly’s heaving sobs the only sound. Mrs. Hudson sighed.  
“Go on dear,” she said to Prince Jim, pushing him towards the Princess, “she’s all yours now. Offer her some tea.”

 

A second council of war was held in the throne room.  
“I do wish you hadn’t been quite so blunt dear,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Her father is not going to be happy, even if she does marry Prince Jim.”  
“I don’t care about Reichenbach,” the Prince shouted. “If the King causes any trouble I’ll just conquer it. But I refuse to marry her. You’ll just have to find someone else, a man this time.”  
“That Molly talks a lot about her cats,” the King said proudly. “Mluble talble mumble cabuble”  
“Yes thank you for pointing that out dear, we hadn’t noticed.” Mrs. Hudson’s patience was growing thin.  
“Moriarty won’t like that,” the King said. “Moriartuble muble lumble.”  
“Just find me a man,” the Prince said. “He must be interesting, that’s all.” The Count spoke up.  
“You want someone interesting, but what if they’re not a Prince?”  
“I don’t care,” the Prince exclaimed. “All Princes are boring anyway. Except me, of course.”  
“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said.  
“I’ll tell you what I want,” the Prince stood. “I want a man so interesting that when people see him they say ‘Prince Moriarty must be amazing to have a husband like that. Search the country, search the world! Just find him.” The Count smirked.  
“He is already found, sire.”

 

It was dawn when the two men reigned in on the hilltop, overlooking the stables.  
“He always comes to the stables in the mornings,” the Count said.  
“And he is interesting? And intelligent?” the Prince asked doubtfully.  
“He was untrained when I met him,” the Count said, “but the potential was overwhelming.”  
“I’m just not sure I could marry a noble,” the Prince said. “They are all so dull.”  
“This one isn’t,” the Count said. A figure crossed from the Manor house to the field behind the stables. “There he is.”  
“Come,” the Prince rode down the hill. They stopped, dismounted and walked over to where the man stood. He looked at them with knowing eyes.  
“Sherlock Holmes,” the Count said. “Show the Prince what you showed me three years ago.” A hollow smile crossed the man’s face. He began to speak. The more he said the hungrier the look in the Prince’s eyes became. By the time he stopped the Prince was practically gleeful.  
“Leave us,” he said to the Count. When they were alone he turned to Sherlock. “I am your Prince and you will marry me.”  
“I will not,” Sherlock replied.  
“I am your Prince and you cannot refuse.”  
“I just did.”  
“Refusal means death.” Sherlock spread his arms wide.  
“Then kill me.”  
“I’m not that bad, why would you rather be dead than married to me?”  
“Because marriage means love, and I’m not very good at love. I tried it once and it ended badly. I swore never to love again.”  
“Love,” the Prince snorted. “I never said anything about love. I must marry or I cannot be King. I ought to marry a woman but women are boring, and I have a brother who can do that. I want an interesting husband. So you can either marry me and sit at my left hand for the rest of your life, or you can die painfully in the immediate future. Your choice.”  
“I will never love you.”  
“If you did I would kill you.”  
“Then by all means, let us marry.”


	5. The Announcement (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting to the interesting bit now and I hope you like my choices of characters. Next update will be Monday.

What with one thing and another; four years passed. Sherlock learnt how to be a Prince and did his best to forget that he had ever had a heart. Eventually the day came when he was to be introduced to his future subjects. The Great Square of the City was filled with people eager to see the man that Prince Moriarty was to marry. At noon the Prince emerged onto the top step outside the palace door.  
“My faithful subjects. As you have no doubt heard, my royal father’s health is no longer what it was, so the time has come for me to take his place. In order for me to do that the law dictates that I must marry. My brother, Prince Jim has married the Princess Molly, and he has taken on the duty to produce an heir. A month from now we will be celebrating our country’s five hundredth anniversary. And on that day I shall take for my husband Prince Sherlock Holmes. You do not know him yet. But you shall meet him now.” He turned and held out his hand. Sherlock joined him on the step. The crowd caught their breath.

Up until this point we have focused on Sherlock’s genius, but it is important to note that his physical beauty matched his brain. He was tall and slim, head held proudly high on a swan-like neck. His hair was black as ebony and curled gently. His skin was pale in contrast, and though he bore scars from his experiments as a child, they added to his beauty, as each one told a story. He looked like a faerie, stepped out of a dream and the crowd was captivated.  
“He is beautiful, isn’t he,” the Prince cried. Sherlock gritted his teeth. “But he is more than that. Let him walk among you, let him speak to you, and once he has, I challenge any man to tell me that he is not a fascinating creature.” The Prince turned to Sherlock. “Go on, beautiful, do your thing.”

And so Sherlock walked among the crowd and he told them their history. Most were shocked into silence, some acknowledged his intelligence but reserved their judgment of his abilities as a Prince, some hated him. They all feared him.   
But only three of them were planning to murder him.   
Sherlock knew none of this. He cared little for what people thought of him, but he wanted to be a good Prince because he hated to do a thing badly. So he walked among the crowd and showed off his skills, and if someone had tried to tell him that his death was close then he would have laughed and told them he was already dead. But –   
\- In the farthest corner of the Great Square –   
\- In the highest room in the City –   
\- In the darkest shadow in the land –  
\- The man in black stood waiting.  
His leather boots were black as pitch. His trousers and shirt were as black as a moonless night. His mask was blacker still and his eyes…  
His flashing eyes were black, cruel and deadly.

 

Sherlock’s mind was buzzing after his triumph. For the first time in three years he felt something other than the crushing numbness. The Prince had told him to rest and he had tried, but his mind was still working overtime and he couldn’t stop it. So he got up, changed into his riding clothes and rode out of the City. He had never enjoyed riding before, but now it was freeing. He was unable to perform experiments in the castle, so riding was the only way he could achieve anything like the adrenalin rush of a delicate experiment. He rode for hours across the hills. He knew that the Prince would be angry when he finally returned to the castle, but for now he didn’t care, reveling in his all too brief freedom. The sun was setting as Sherlock reached the top of the hill, still half an hour away from the castle. Suddenly he reigned in his horse, because standing in the road was the strangest trio he had ever seen.  
The man in front was in his early fifties, but he looked older. His clothes were several years out of fashion and he had an odd look in his eyes that Sherlock couldn’t quite place. The second man was younger, in his forties, with silver hair and a sword at his side. The third man was the biggest of the three, tall and muscular, with long hair tied in a ponytail.   
“A word,” the first man asked.  
“Speak,” Sherlock replied.  
“My name is Jefferson Hope, and these are my companions Lestrade and Angelo. We are poor circus performers looking for somewhere to rest for the night. Is there a village nearby?”  
“No,” Sherlock replied with disdain, “there is nothing nearby. Not for miles.” Jefferson Hope’s smile turned dark.  
“Then there will be no one to hear you scream.” Sherlock tried to turn his horse but the old man was faster than he looked. His hands expertly touched places on his neck, and Sherlock knew no more.

Sherlock awoke to the lapping of water.  
He was wrapped in a blanket on the bottom of a boat. He stayed absolutely still, straining his ears to hear the conversation of his captors.  
“I think we should try to make him comfortable,” the giant, Angelo, was saying.  
“Don’t think,” Jefferson Hope hissed, “you can’t think. The less you think the happier I’ll be.” There was the sound of ripping cloth.  
“What’s that?” the man with the sword, Lestrade, asked.  
“Cloth from the uniform of Reichenbach, the same as I attached to his saddle. When the Prince finds it he will believe his beloved fiancée was captured by the King of Reichenbach. When they find his mutilated body beyond the Reichenbach boarder they will be certain.”  
“I still don’t think it’s right, killing an innocent man,” the giant said.  
“Well you haven’t been paid to think, you’ve been paid to kidnap the Prince’s fiancée. And if we want the rest of our fee we have to leave his body in Reichenbach. It’s really very simple.” There was the sound of flapping sails and the ship began to move.  
“The people of Baker Street are unlikely to start a war over this,” said Lestrade. “This prince-to-be is not that popular. They’re afraid of him.”  
“It’s not the people who have the power to start a war,” hissed Hope, “it’s the Prince. And he will be distraught at the loss of his perfect match.”  
“I don’t like killing him,” Lestrade sounded stubborn. “He’s unarmed, it’s not honourable.”  
“God kills unarmed people all the time, if it doesn’t bother him it shouldn’t bother you,” frustration was creeping into Hope’s voice. Sherlock still hadn’t moved.  
“Well, can we at least not tell him that we’re going to kill him,” Sherlock could hear the fatigue in Lestrade’s voice. “Let’s just say we’ve taken him for ransom or something.”  
“You could try but he wouldn’t believe you,” Hope was smug. “He’s already heard everything we’ve said. He’s awake.” Sherlock froze, how could he have known?  
“How do you know that?” Lestrade asked, irritated.  
“I actually pay attention to what’s going on around me,” Hope said mockingly. “Are we giving it full sail?”  
“As much as is safe,” replied Lestrade.  
“Good. We should reach the cliffs in about two hours, and the Reichenbach frontier at dawn. Then he dies. When the Prince finds the body it should still be warm. I only wish we could stay to view his grief – it should be epic.” Why is the idiot letting me hear his plans, Sherlock wondered.   
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to sleep now, my Lord,” Lestrade said regretfully, and fingers ghosted over his temple, shoulder and neck and he was unconscious again…

 

Sherlock was woken by the sound of someone walking close to him, probably Lestrade judging by the sound of his footsteps. Without thinking he pounced on Lestrade. They tussled on the deck, fairly evenly matched. Sherlock was younger and faster but Lestrade was a trained fighter.   
“Angelo!” Sherlock heard Hope shout, and then suddenly he was being pulled off the silver-haired man as if he was a rag doll. Angelo held onto him as he struggled in vain.  
“I had hoped to keep you alive until we reached Reichenbach,” Hope said, “but if necessary I can kill you now. It will make this journey significantly easier.” Sherlock stilled as his captor raised his knife. He tensed, expecting a blow. But it never came.  
“No!” Lestrade shouted. Hope turned to him, exasperated.   
“No? He’s going to die anyway, what difference does it make when?” Lestrade was calm as he answered.  
“It will make a greater impact if the body is fresh when the Prince finds it. Imagine the guilt he will feel, knowing that he was just too late to save his beloved. Besides, he’s stopped struggling now; if we tie him up he won’t cause any more problems.”  
“Perhaps you’re not as stupid as you look,” Hope said, grudgingly. “Alright, Angelo, tie him up, tightly. Lestrade, take the helm, we’ll be nearing the Cliffs soon.” The full moon shone down on Sherlock as Angelo tied his hands behind his back and his feet together.  
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t want to do this, but we have to obey Hope. He’s the brains. We’re the brawn, you see?” Sherlock nodded with disdain. Angelo propped him up against the side of the ship. Sherlock sat still, biding his time. Attempting escape at sea had been a long shot as he had nowhere to go. But when they reached land he would be able to run, as they would probably have to untie his legs for the journey.  
“Look!” Lestrade cried, “The Cliffs of Insanity!”

 

The cliffs rose sheer from the water, a thousand feet straight up. To Sherlock it looked as if they were brushing the stars. He knew from his studies of maps that crossing the cliff was the most direct way to reach Reichenbach, but they were impassable. Instead ships went miles down the coast to one of the natural harbours. And yet this ship was heading straight for them.  
“Sail straight for the steepest part,” Hope shouted.  
“I was,” Lestrade hissed.  
“All is well,” Hope said exultantly, “we’ve made good time. The Prince will still be miles behind us.”  
“No one could be following us yet?” Lestrade asked.  
“No one,” Hope assured him smugly, “it would be inconceivable.”  
“Absolutely inconceivable?”  
“Absolutely, totally and completely inconceivable,” Hope’s smile faltered slightly. “Why do you ask?”  
“No reason,” Lestrade said nonchalantly, “I just happened to look back and something’s there.” Hope ran to the back of the ship. Sherlock strained to see.  
Less than a mile behind them, barely visible even under the full moon was a black ship. And at the helm was the man in black.  
“It’s probably just a fisherman out for a pleasure cruise,” Hope said weakly.  
“At night?” said Angelo.  
“Through eel infested waters?” asked Lestrade sceptically. Sherlock stared at the great black sail and felt cold. For some reason, the sight of the black ship scared him more than anything he had been through so far.  
“Well it doesn’t matter now,” Hope said, “we’ve reached the cliffs.” The three of them began to prepare to disembark. “We have to be quick, because if he is gaining, which we all know is outside the realm of human possibility, but if he is gaining then we need to get up that rope and cut it before he can follow.” Lestrade had manoeuvred the ship flush to the wall, and Hope had reached out to touch the cliff. He scrabbled around a bit until he found a rope. Sherlock’s eyes widened as he followed the rope up the cliff until he couldn’t see it any more. He felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Angelo went to the rope and took it in both of his hands.   
“Load me,” he said. Lestrade manhandled Sherlock into the harness on Angelo’s back, before he and Hope climbed into ones on Angelo’s hips.

Then Angelo began to climb. It was over a thousand feet and he was carrying three people, but he wasn’t worried. Analysis of poetry might terrify him and advance mathematics might cause him to break out in a cold sweat, but strength had always been his friend. And of all his limbs the strongest were his arms. He could have climbed a cliff twice as high, carrying three times as much weight without breaking a sweat.  
Hope was not as comfortable. For all his brains, all his planning ability, he had never been able to conquer his fear of heights. The only reason he wasn’t a weeping, gibbering wreck was his iron control over his body. But he didn’t dare look down, which is why Lestrade was the first one to notice that they weren’t alone on the rope.  
“Look,” he said. Without thinking Hope looked down. He experienced a brief moment of vertigo before his eyes locked onto the man in black, who was climbing up the rope behind them.  
“Faster!” he shouted.  
“I’m going as fast as I can,” Angelo grunted.  
“Well it’s not fast enough,” Hope shouted down Angelo’s ear. Lestrade looked down.  
“He’s gaining!” he shouted.   
“You are supposed to be this giant, this colossus, the strongest man alive, and yet he gains,” Hope’s voice was rising in pitch and volume.   
“Well he’s on his own,” Angelo protested, “I’m carrying three people…”  
“I don’t care,” Hope exploded, “just climb faster!” He looked up. The top of the cliffs were beginning to come into view. They would be safe after another hundred feet or so.  
“He’s over halfway,” Lestrade said.  
“Faster!” Hope shouted. “We have to get to the top before him.”  
Fifty feet.  
Angelo pulled.  
Forty feet.  
Angelo heaved.  
Twenty.  
Ten.  
Angelo had done it.   
He climbed over the top and Hope immediately detached himself and scrambled for the rope, as Lestrade freed Sherlock from his harness. Hope drew his knife and began sawing at the rope. The fibres split one by one, until the rope broke and slithered over the edge of the cliff, falling into oblivion. Hope roared in triumph, and kept roaring as Lestrade looked over the edge of the cliff.

“He did it,” Lestrade said, shaking his head in amazement. Hope stopped mid roar.  
“What?” Hope ran to the edge of the cliff and looked down.  
The man in black was clinging to the sheer cliff face by his fingertips, legs dangling over the abyss.  
“Inconceivable!” Hope exclaimed.  
“Stop saying that word!” Lestrade rounded on him. “I don’t think it means what you think it does. It was inconceivable that anyone could sail as fast as us, and he gained. It was inconceivable that anyone except Angelo could climb that rope, and yet the man in black followed us. It is inconceivable that anyone could climb the Cliffs of Insanity without assistance, but look – look,” he gestured downwards, “he’s climbing.”  
“I will not stand for this insubordination!” Hope was almost screaming. “Who are you to tell me what is and isn’t conceivable? I am the brains behind this entire operation. When I found you, you were so drunk you couldn’t buy cigarettes! And you,” he rounded on Angelo, “you would be languishing in prison on a false murder charge if I hadn’t broken you out. Do you want to go back there?”  
“No, Hope, I don’t,” Angelo made himself as small as possible, wanting desperately to deflect attention from himself.  
“Right then,” Hope forced himself to calm down. “Angelo, pick up the prince and come with me, and you,” he turned to Lestrade, “if I leave you here to make sure the man in black dies, can I trust you to finish the job?”  
“Of course,” Lestrade said sullenly.   
“Thank you. Come on, Angelo.” He waited as Angelo hefted Sherlock onto his shoulders before beginning to lead him towards the Reichenbach frontier.  
“I’m going to fight him right handed,” Lestrade shouted after him.  
“What?” Hope stopped and turned, “You know what a hurry we’re in!”  
“It’s the only way I can be satisfied, if I use my left,” Lestrade shrugged, “over too quickly.” Hope was speechless with rage for a moment, before crying,  
“Oh fine, do it your way! But catch up quickly?”  
“Don’t I always?” Lestrade replied smugly. “Goodbye Angelo.”  
“Goodbye Lestrade,” Angelo waved as Hope dragged him away.


	6. The Announcement (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting exciting now, so I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for all the reviews.

Lestrade drew his sword, examining it for non-existent imperfections. He performed a few practice strikes before re-sheathing it. He scrubbed his hand through his hair, sighed and sat on a boulder. He lent back and watched the sun as it rose higher in the sky. Then he stood, moved to the edge of the cliff and knelt with his customary grace. He looked over the edge and watched as the man in black struggled to climb the sheer cliff face. The man in black was climbing by pushing his fingers into tiny cracks in the rock, but it was slow going. Lestrade called to him.  
“Hello there!” The man in black paused but didn’t reply. Lestrade tried again, “I don’t suppose you could speed things up?”  
“This may look easy,” the man in black replied, “but I can promise you it isn’t, so unless you can offer me a rope or something I would appreciate it if you were quiet.”  
“I have a rope,” Lestrade said, “but I don’t think you’ll want it, as I am only waiting here to kill you.”  
“That does present something of a problem,” the man in black said. Lestrade walked away from the cliff then turned back.  
“I can give you my word as the son of a Frenchman.”  
“No good,” the man in black replied, voice strained as he shifted position, “I’ve known too many Frenchmen.” Lestrade ran his hands through his hair, then stilled.  
“I swear on the soul of my father, Philippe Lestrade, you will reach the top alive.” The man in black considered.  
“Throw me the rope.” Lestrade went over to where the rope was tied around the round and un-looped enough to reach the man in black. He held it steady as the man in black ascended to the top of the cliff. When he reached the top he went to draw his blade but Lestrade waved him away,  
“We can wait until you’re ready.”  
“Thank you,” said the man in black.  
“Don’t thank me,” Lestrade grinned. “I just don’t want you to be able to attribute your defeat to anything save my own skill.”

The man in black moved to sit on a boulder before studying Lestrade with his calm eyes. Lestrade felt uncomfortable, and broke the silence,  
“I don’t suppose you have six fingers on your right hand.” The man in black paused, and then held up his right hand to demonstrate his normal number of fingers.  
“Do you always greet new people like that? Because that might explain a few things.” Lestrade huffed out a laugh, surprising himself, before sobering quickly.  
“My father was killed by a six-fingered man.” The man in black tilted his head but didn’t ask. Lestrade took a breath, “He was a great soldier, my father, and more than that he was an honourable man. He was the best swordsman I had ever seen. One day the six-fingered man came to the house to offer my father a job off the record, a job that went against his beliefs. My father refused. Without a word the six-fingered man stabbed him through the heart. I loved my father, so naturally I challenged his killer to a duel. The six-fingered man left me alive; but he gave me this.” He gestured to the long scar running down the right side of his face from eyebrow to jaw.  
“How old were you?” the man in black asked with unexpected sympathy.  
“I was eleven years old,” Lestrade sighed. “Since then I have devoted myself to becoming a master swordsman, so that when I find the six-fingered man I can defeat him. And when I find him, I will go up to him and say ‘Hello. My name is Gabriel Philippe Lestrade. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”  
“And you’ve done nothing but study swordplay?” the man in black asked, impressed.  
“More pursuit than study lately, but it’s been 30 odd years and I haven’t found him, so I work with Hope to pay the bills. Turns out there’s not much money in revenge.” He smiled ruefully, “Are you ready?” The man in black stood,  
“Even if I’m not you’ve been more than fair. You’re an honourable man.” Lestrade paused,  
“Honourable,” he said, “I haven’t been called honourable in a long time.” They both drew their swords and headed to an open space away from the cliff top, assuming the en guard position. Let him challenge me, Lestrade thought, let him be strong and fast and as good a tactician as I am, let him be a master. He grinned,  
“You seem a decent fellow, I hate to kill you.” The man in black smiled grimly,  
“You seem a decent fellow, I hate to die.”  
“Begin.”

 

Their first strikes were tentative, testing each other out, but they quickly gathered momentum. They both fought right handed; Lestrade could fight equally well with both hands, with a slight preference for his left, but he wanted this fight to be fair, for the man in black to give him the challenge he craved. He was not disappointed. Within moments the man in black took that attack against him. Lestrade smiled, no one had taken the attack against him in years and it was utterly thrilling! He relaxed, letting the man in black attack, building his confidence. Then he stepped up a gear, renewed his attack, catching the man in black by surprise. He fell back, stumbled but didn’t hit the floor. Lestrade was impressed with the speed of his recovery but wasn’t worried. He continued to press his attack, forcing the man in black towards a cluster of boulders, interested to see how he would cope with such close quarters.  
First blood went to Lestrade. His blade slipped past the man in black’s defence, biting into his left arm. It wasn’t deep but it bled gently. Lestrade allowed himself a grin of triumph. Suddenly the man in black began his best attack yet, blade moving so fast that Lestrade’s parries were purely instinctual, no time to think or plan. He pushed Lestrade backwards towards the edge of the cliff.  
“You are brilliant,” Lestrade said, breathless with enjoyment.  
“Thank you,” the man in black replied, “I’ve worked hard to become so.”  
“I admit it, you’re better than I am.”  
“Then why are you smiling?”  
“Because I know something you don’t know.”  
“What?”  
“I am not right handed.” Lestrade switched his blade to his left hand and pressed forward again.

The advantage was once again his and he used it. He cut the man in black’s shoulder, his right arm, and he felt like he was flying. He forced the man in black backwards until there was nowhere left for him to run. Their blades clashed, the man in black struggling to push him back.  
“There’s something I ought to tell you,” the man in black grunted.  
“What?”  
“I’m not right handed either.” He pushed Lestrade off, switched his blade to his left hand and threw himself back into the attack.  
“Who are you?” Lestrade asked, retreating desperately.  
“Nobody of any importance, just another swordsman.”  
“I have to know.”  
“Get used to disappointment.” They danced across the open ground; Lestrade tried to reach the trees or the boulders but was blocked at every turn by the man in black.

And then he thought the unthinkable.

In the open, the man in black was better than he was.

And once that thought had been thunk there was no getting away from it. Among the trees or the boulders, at close quarters, Lestrade’s greater experience would have guaranteed him victory, but in the open the man in black was just that little bit stronger, that little bit faster. For the first time in many years Lestrade knew what it was like to be on the losing side and he suddenly realised why; he had become complacent, with no man to challenge his skill he was out of practice, and the man in black wanted to win. For whatever reason he wanted to catch up to Hope; he needed to defeat Lestrade, more than Lestrade needed to defeat him. But Lestrade would not give up that easily. He pressed forward in one final assault but overstretched. In a blindingly fast move the man in black disarmed Lestrade, sending his sword spiralling away. Lestrade fell to his knees.  
“You are a worthy opponent,” he panted, “now as you are an honourable man I beg you, kill me quickly.” The man in black circled him.  
“I have never killed an unarmed man,” he said, “I do not intend to start now. However, I can’t have you following me, so…” he struck Lestrade over the head with his sword, knocking him unconscious. “Please understand I hold you in the highest respect.” The man in black then sheathed his own sword before running down the trail, a hunter in pursuit of his prey…

 

“He’s beaten Lestrade!” Angelo called from his vantage point on the top of the hill.  
“Inconceivable,” Hope exclaimed. “Right, you are going to have to finish him, your way.”  
“My way?” Angelo asked. Hope sighed in frustration.  
“Pick up a rock. Stand behind a boulder. When the man in black comes into view, throw the rock at his head. It’s really not that hard. I’ll take the prince to the boarder.” Hope cut the ropes binding Sherlock’s legs and pulled him away down the path. Angelo lifted a rock and moved behind a boulder. He didn’t like the idea of springing a trap on the man in black, it didn’t seem to be very sportsmanlike but Hope had told him to, and Hope’s word was law. Angelo had always relied on his strength to carry him through, so when he had been accused of murder he had been unable to defend himself. He had thought he would be stuck in prison for the rest of his days, but then Hope had found him, freed him and given him a new life. He didn’t always like it but he hadn’t the brains to survive alone. He was dependant on Hope so he would obey him. Up to a point.

 

The man in black jogged towards the boulders. Angelo ducked down, hefted the rock, took aim and threw it. The man in black ducked as it shattered above his head.  
“That was deliberate,” Angelo said, stepping out, carrying another rock “I don’t have to miss.”  
“I believe you,” the man in black said, straightening. “So what happens now?”  
“We face each other, as god intended, sportsmanlike.”  
“You mean, I put down my sword and you put down your rock and we try to beat each other to a bloody pulp like civilised men.” Angelo nodded. The man in black lowered his sword to the ground and took up a fighting stance. Angelo grinned; he was larger than the man in black, undoubtedly stronger. This would be easy.  
He charged.  
The man in black struck a swift series of blows.  
Angelo fell.  
The man in black moved over to him and knelt down beside him. He checked his vitals, then shifted him into a more comfortable position.  
“I don’t envy you the headache you will have when you wake up,” he said, “but until then, sleep well and dream of large women.” He moved back over to his sword, kicked it up into his hand, sheathed it and jogged off, back on the trail.


	7. The Announcement (Part Three)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway there and we reach the bit everyone has been waiting for (well I have at any rate). Hope you enjoy and please review.

Sherlock stumbled and fell as Hope pushed him, forced him to sit on a log and tied his legs together. The blindfold was pulled off his eyes and he blinked rapidly. Hope untied his hands, before walking to sit opposite him across a smooth tree-stump.   
“I presume this is when you kill me,” Sherlock said.  
“No,” Hope said, “this is where you kill yourself.” Sherlock tilted his head in confusion. “You are supposedly a genius,” Hope continued, “I want to test that, with these.” He put two glass bottles on the smooth tree stump, each with a single small pill in it. Sherlock examined them carefully. “One is poison, one is safe, but which is which?” Hope said, grinning like a crocodile, “That’s what you have to find out. Do you understand?”  
“Yes,” Sherlock said calmly, leaning back. “Two pills, one for each of us. I chose, we both take a pill and see who is right, and who is dead.”  
“Well done,” Hope said approvingly, “you are good.” He lent forward eagerly, “Doesn’t it infuriate you when people don’t think. Why can’t people just think?” Sherlock paused, took a breath,  
“Oh I see. You’re a genius too.”  
“Yes I am,” Hope said, “but we haven’t time to chat. It’s time for you to choose.”  
“What if I chose neither?” Sherlock asked.  
“Then I kill you anyway,” Hope said. “You could try to run but you wouldn’t get far with your legs tied. If you choose, there’s a chance you’ll live.”  
“That’s a big risk you’re taking, for what reason?”  
“The challenge. But it’s not a risk, because I know which you’ll choose. It’s not chance, it’s chess, with one move. This one.” He pushed forwards the bottle on his left. “Did I give you the good pill or the bad one?” Sherlock tilted his head, considering. A thousand observations flitted through his head, each one telling him the story of the man sitting in front of him. He weighed them against each other, following his thought processes, until he reached a decision.  
“Come on,” Hope said, “I haven’t got all day” Sherlock looked at the bottle closest to Hope, before reaching out and grabbing it.   
“Interesting,” Hope murmured, “very interesting.” From his bag he produced two goblets and a bottle of wine. He poured the wine, placed one goblet in front of Sherlock and the other before himself. He picked up the remaining bottle, removed the pill from inside and dropped it into his wine, causing it to fizz slightly. Sherlock did the same. Hope began to speak  
“We both know you’re eager to do this, to test yourself against a mind worthy of your own. You’ve been so bored, trapped in that castle, so desperate for entertainment. Well let me tell you something, Sherlock Holmes. You’re not bored now, are you?” Sherlock raised his glass to his lips as Hope did the same. He was certain he had made the right choice, and yet a thrill of doubt flew through his veins as he felt the liquid touch his upper lip. He looked up and met Hope’s smug eyes.

Suddenly there was a knife in Hope’s heart.

Sherlock dropped his goblet in shock.

Hope collapsed, red wine cascading down his front, mixing with his blood to form a grotesque cocktail. Before Sherlock could even think about moving he felt rough gloved hands grabbing his shoulders, his face, forcing him to look away from Hope’s shell.  
And into the eyes of the man in black.  
“Did you drink any?” the man in black demanded. Sherlock shook his head mutely.  
“Good.” Sherlock’s hands were once again tied behind his back but he was still too shocked to resist. He had never seen death so close before, and that knife had come from nowhere, thrown with terrifying accuracy. The man in black removed his blade from his victim’s chest, cleaned it carefully on Hope’s clothing, and then held it under Sherlock’s chin, forcing his head up.  
“You are going to come with me,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “You will not argue. You will not resist. Understand?” Sherlock nodded carefully, wary of the blade resting against his neck. Looking into his new captor’s eyes his felt a thrill of fear flood through him. He wanted to look away but he couldn’t, drawn in by the icy calm in the eyes of the man above him. The man in black looked into him searchingly and then nodded, seemingly satisfied with his submission, before sheathing his knife and bending down to untie Sherlock’s legs.   
“Who are you?” Sherlock breathed.  
“I am no one to be trifled with,” the man in black replied, “that is all you ever need know.”   
He pulled him to his feet and immediately set off, dragging him out of the frying pan and, Sherlock hoped, into the fire.

 

The man in black pulled Sherlock behind him, along the edge of a steep-sided ravine. Sherlock stumbled, almost tripping over his own feet. Without looking at him, the man in black pushed him to lean on a rock.  
“Catch your breath,” he said.  
“Why are you doing this?” Sherlock asked. “For money? Because if the Prince finds you and you haven’t released me then he would sooner kill you than pay you ransom.”  
“He would have to find us first,” the man in black said, scanning the horizon distractedly.  
“He is the greatest hunter of the age,” Sherlock said. “He will find me.”  
“You show great faith in your dearest love,” the man in black said mockingly.  
“It’s not faith, it’s fact,” Sherlock said scathingly. “And he’s not my dearest love.”  
“So you admit you do not love your fiancé,” the man in black said, “does he know?”  
“We have always been honest with each other,” Sherlock replied haughtily. “We barely see each other and we are perfectly happy.” The man in black gave him a scathing look, making Sherlock bristle. “I fell in love once. It did not go well. I have chosen not to love again.”  
“Are not capable of love, you mean, I have seen your type before. You are cold and proud, above all other men.” The man in black sounded bitter, but Sherlock was too angry to wonder at his tone.  
“I have loved more deeply than a killer like yourself could ever dream.” Sherlock flinched as the man in black swung back his arm. He waited for the blow.

It never came.

The man in black lowered his hand, breathing deeply through his nose. Sherlock fell back against the rock, fear thrumming through his veins.  
“I know who you are, it’s obvious,” he said, trying to control his breathing. “You’re the Dread Pirate Murray, admit it.”  
“With pride,” the man in black said, recovering himself. “What can I do for you?”  
“You can throw yourself off that cliff, if nothing else it would be entertaining.” The man in black tutted.  
“That’s not very nice, what did I ever do to you,”  
“Beyond kidnapping me?”  
“I think you mean, rescuing you.”  
“I know what I mean. But beyond that, you killed the only man I have ever loved.” The man in black stilled.  
“It’s probable; I kill a lot of people. Who was he, another prince?”  
“No,” Sherlock said, eyes wistful, “a stable boy who had become a doctor, with eyes like the calm before a storm. He was the best man I have ever known and you killed him in a raid on the hospital he was working in.” The man in black walked away slightly, arms folded.  
“I believe I remember your stable boy turned doctor, this would be, what five years ago? Does it bother you to hear?” Sherlock shook his head. “He died well. He was treating patients when we found him. Battle raging around him and his hands were completely steady. He was dragged onto the ship Revenge, thrown on the floor before me. He didn’t beg or plead, simply stared me down. Then a severely wounded member of my crew was brought on board. Before anyone could react he went to him and began to treat him, without asking for anything in return.”  
“And yet you killed him,” Sherlock said bitterly. He was proud his John had died bravely, not weeping or pleading, but his heart felt tight and his eyes wet. The man in black continued speaking.  
“Well I have a reputation to maintain. If I spare one man people will think I’ve gone soft, and then they’ll complain it’s nothing but work, work, work all the time. But you really should be nicer to me; I did save your life.”  
“I fail to see how,” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow.  
“If I hadn’t stopped you, you would have taken that pill, and would now be lying cold and mutilated on the Reichenbach frontier.” Anger had begun to creep into the man in black’s voice.  
“I had the right pill, I know it!” Sherlock drew himself up to his full height, but the man in black would not allow himself to be intimidated.  
“You’d think so, except you missed a glaringly obvious fact. Both pills were poisoned!”  
“What?” Sherlock was shocked, that had never occurred to him.  
“Both pills were poisoned,” the man in black repeated, speaking slowly, as if addressing a child. “It didn’t matter which one you chose, you would have died either way. Hope had built up an immunity to the poison, so he would always survive. As far as I know he’s pulled that trick four times before, each time he’s walked away, leaving his victim dead behind him.” The longer Sherlock listened to his voice, full of passion and emotion, the more he felt he had heard it before. “Tell me, is that what you do now, risk your life to prove you’re clever?”  
“Why would I do that?” Sherlock breathed, barely believing the conclusion his heart and mind had led him to. The man in black met his eyes.  
“Because you’re an idiot.”  
“John?” Sherlock whispered. He reached forward, removed the mask.   
A dead man looked back at him  
“Sherlock,” John replied, voice soft.

 

They stood staring at each other.  
Then they came together, lips seeking each other, clinging on as if they would fall off the edge of the world if they let go. Sherlock pushed his hands through John’s hair, covering his face with desperate kisses.  
“God, you’re beautiful,” John whispered, “and still as brilliant as I remember. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve dreamed of this moment.”  
“I thought you were dead,” Sherlock whispered, bitterness in his voice, though he clung to John as tightly as before. “I wept for you. I mourned you.”  
“I’m sorry,” John said, resting his hand on Sherlock’s cheek, forehead to forehead. “I’m so sorry Sherlock but I believed it was necessary. Forgive me?” Sherlock wanted to be angry, wanted to hate John for what he had put him through, but he couldn’t.   
“Yes. But do you forgive me? I’m engaged to another man.”  
“Oh yes,” John smiled, “I had forgotten that. Well you aren’t married yet.”  
“I won’t marry anyone except you.”  
“Good answer,” John smiled, pressing a tender kiss to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock moaned, pulling John closer, tangling his hands in his hair. John pulled back abruptly, looking over Sherlock’s shoulder.  
The sound of hoof beats forced its way into Sherlock’s subconscious.  
“Here comes your knight in shining armour,” John muttered.   
“Tell him I’ve already got one,” Sherlock said. John giggled.  
“I would but I quite like living.” Sherlock studied the surroundings, mind whirring, plans created and discarded. John watched him, eyes open and warm.  
“Do you trust me?” Sherlock asked, eyes searching.  
“Always,” John replied. Sherlock grinned, eyes alight, before taking John’s hand and pulling him down into the ravine.

 

They slid down the steep slope, both doing their best to remain upright and avoid the rocks that littered their path. They finally came to rest side by side, lying on their backs and breathing heavily.   
“That was the most ridiculous thing I have ever done,” John gasped.  
“And you became a pirate,” Sherlock said, grinning. John giggled and Sherlock never wanted him to stop.  
“I’ll have you know I’m a very good pirate. Besides, me being a pirate is nowhere near as ridiculous as you being a prince.”  
“Perhaps you’re right,” Sherlock said, staring up at the sky. “A lot has changed since we parted, hasn’t it?”  
“Not everything,” John replied, shifting onto his elbow to look at Sherlock. “Not the way I feel about you.” Sherlock smiled happily. John pressed a kiss to his lips before standing gingerly, testing his limbs for injuries and fining none.  
“Come on,” he said, offering Sherlock his hand and pulling him up.  
“Got your breath back?” Sherlock asked.  
“Ready when you are,” John replied. Hand in hand the headed off down the ravine, towards the Fire Swamp.


	8. The Announcement (Part Three)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway there and we reach the bit everyone has been waiting for (well I have at any rate). Hope you enjoy and please review.

Sherlock stumbled and fell as Hope pushed him, forced him to sit on a log and tied his legs together. The blindfold was pulled off his eyes and he blinked rapidly. Hope untied his hands, before walking to sit opposite him across a smooth tree-stump.   
“I presume this is when you kill me,” Sherlock said.  
“No,” Hope said, “this is where you kill yourself.” Sherlock tilted his head in confusion. “You are supposedly a genius,” Hope continued, “I want to test that, with these.” He put two glass bottles on the smooth tree stump, each with a single small pill in it. Sherlock examined them carefully. “One is poison, one is safe, but which is which?” Hope said, grinning like a crocodile, “That’s what you have to find out. Do you understand?”  
“Yes,” Sherlock said calmly, leaning back. “Two pills, one for each of us. I chose, we both take a pill and see who is right, and who is dead.”  
“Well done,” Hope said approvingly, “you are good.” He lent forward eagerly, “Doesn’t it infuriate you when people don’t think. Why can’t people just think?” Sherlock paused, took a breath,  
“Oh I see. You’re a genius too.”  
“Yes I am,” Hope said, “but we haven’t time to chat. It’s time for you to choose.”  
“What if I chose neither?” Sherlock asked.  
“Then I kill you anyway,” Hope said. “You could try to run but you wouldn’t get far with your legs tied. If you choose, there’s a chance you’ll live.”  
“That’s a big risk you’re taking, for what reason?”  
“The challenge. But it’s not a risk, because I know which you’ll choose. It’s not chance, it’s chess, with one move. This one.” He pushed forwards the bottle on his left. “Did I give you the good pill or the bad one?” Sherlock tilted his head, considering. A thousand observations flitted through his head, each one telling him the story of the man sitting in front of him. He weighed them against each other, following his thought processes, until he reached a decision.  
“Come on,” Hope said, “I haven’t got all day” Sherlock looked at the bottle closest to Hope, before reaching out and grabbing it.   
“Interesting,” Hope murmured, “very interesting.” From his bag he produced two goblets and a bottle of wine. He poured the wine, placed one goblet in front of Sherlock and the other before himself. He picked up the remaining bottle, removed the pill from inside and dropped it into his wine, causing it to fizz slightly. Sherlock did the same. Hope began to speak  
“We both know you’re eager to do this, to test yourself against a mind worthy of your own. You’ve been so bored, trapped in that castle, so desperate for entertainment. Well let me tell you something, Sherlock Holmes. You’re not bored now, are you?” Sherlock raised his glass to his lips as Hope did the same. He was certain he had made the right choice, and yet a thrill of doubt flew through his veins as he felt the liquid touch his upper lip. He looked up and met Hope’s smug eyes.

Suddenly there was a knife in Hope’s heart.

Sherlock dropped his goblet in shock.

Hope collapsed, red wine cascading down his front, mixing with his blood to form a grotesque cocktail. Before Sherlock could even think about moving he felt rough gloved hands grabbing his shoulders, his face, forcing him to look away from Hope’s shell.  
And into the eyes of the man in black.  
“Did you drink any?” the man in black demanded. Sherlock shook his head mutely.  
“Good.” Sherlock’s hands were once again tied behind his back but he was still too shocked to resist. He had never seen death so close before, and that knife had come from nowhere, thrown with terrifying accuracy. The man in black removed his blade from his victim’s chest, cleaned it carefully on Hope’s clothing, and then held it under Sherlock’s chin, forcing his head up.  
“You are going to come with me,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “You will not argue. You will not resist. Understand?” Sherlock nodded carefully, wary of the blade resting against his neck. Looking into his new captor’s eyes his felt a thrill of fear flood through him. He wanted to look away but he couldn’t, drawn in by the icy calm in the eyes of the man above him. The man in black looked into him searchingly and then nodded, seemingly satisfied with his submission, before sheathing his knife and bending down to untie Sherlock’s legs.   
“Who are you?” Sherlock breathed.  
“I am no one to be trifled with,” the man in black replied, “that is all you ever need know.”   
He pulled him to his feet and immediately set off, dragging him out of the frying pan and, Sherlock hoped, into the fire.

 

The man in black pulled Sherlock behind him, along the edge of a steep-sided ravine. Sherlock stumbled, almost tripping over his own feet. Without looking at him, the man in black pushed him to lean on a rock.  
“Catch your breath,” he said.  
“Why are you doing this?” Sherlock asked. “For money? Because if the Prince finds you and you haven’t released me then he would sooner kill you than pay you ransom.”  
“He would have to find us first,” the man in black said, scanning the horizon distractedly.  
“He is the greatest hunter of the age,” Sherlock said. “He will find me.”  
“You show great faith in your dearest love,” the man in black said mockingly.  
“It’s not faith, it’s fact,” Sherlock said scathingly. “And he’s not my dearest love.”  
“So you admit you do not love your fiancé,” the man in black said, “does he know?”  
“We have always been honest with each other,” Sherlock replied haughtily. “We barely see each other and we are perfectly happy.” The man in black gave him a scathing look, making Sherlock bristle. “I fell in love once. It did not go well. I have chosen not to love again.”  
“Are not capable of love, you mean, I have seen your type before. You are cold and proud, above all other men.” The man in black sounded bitter, but Sherlock was too angry to wonder at his tone.  
“I have loved more deeply than a killer like yourself could ever dream.” Sherlock flinched as the man in black swung back his arm. He waited for the blow.

It never came.

The man in black lowered his hand, breathing deeply through his nose. Sherlock fell back against the rock, fear thrumming through his veins.  
“I know who you are, it’s obvious,” he said, trying to control his breathing. “You’re the Dread Pirate Murray, admit it.”  
“With pride,” the man in black said, recovering himself. “What can I do for you?”  
“You can throw yourself off that cliff, if nothing else it would be entertaining.” The man in black tutted.  
“That’s not very nice, what did I ever do to you,”  
“Beyond kidnapping me?”  
“I think you mean, rescuing you.”  
“I know what I mean. But beyond that, you killed the only man I have ever loved.” The man in black stilled.  
“It’s probable; I kill a lot of people. Who was he, another prince?”  
“No,” Sherlock said, eyes wistful, “a stable boy who had become a doctor, with eyes like the calm before a storm. He was the best man I have ever known and you killed him in a raid on the hospital he was working in.” The man in black walked away slightly, arms folded.  
“I believe I remember your stable boy turned doctor, this would be, what five years ago? Does it bother you to hear?” Sherlock shook his head. “He died well. He was treating patients when we found him. Battle raging around him and his hands were completely steady. He was dragged onto the ship Revenge, thrown on the floor before me. He didn’t beg or plead, simply stared me down. Then a severely wounded member of my crew was brought on board. Before anyone could react he went to him and began to treat him, without asking for anything in return.”  
“And yet you killed him,” Sherlock said bitterly. He was proud his John had died bravely, not weeping or pleading, but his heart felt tight and his eyes wet. The man in black continued speaking.  
“Well I have a reputation to maintain. If I spare one man people will think I’ve gone soft, and then they’ll complain it’s nothing but work, work, work all the time. But you really should be nicer to me; I did save your life.”  
“I fail to see how,” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow.  
“If I hadn’t stopped you, you would have taken that pill, and would now be lying cold and mutilated on the Reichenbach frontier.” Anger had begun to creep into the man in black’s voice.  
“I had the right pill, I know it!” Sherlock drew himself up to his full height, but the man in black would not allow himself to be intimidated.  
“You’d think so, except you missed a glaringly obvious fact. Both pills were poisoned!”  
“What?” Sherlock was shocked, that had never occurred to him.  
“Both pills were poisoned,” the man in black repeated, speaking slowly, as if addressing a child. “It didn’t matter which one you chose, you would have died either way. Hope had built up an immunity to the poison, so he would always survive. As far as I know he’s pulled that trick four times before, each time he’s walked away, leaving his victim dead behind him.” The longer Sherlock listened to his voice, full of passion and emotion, the more he felt he had heard it before. “Tell me, is that what you do now, risk your life to prove you’re clever?”  
“Why would I do that?” Sherlock breathed, barely believing the conclusion his heart and mind had led him to. The man in black met his eyes.  
“Because you’re an idiot.”  
“John?” Sherlock whispered. He reached forward, removed the mask.   
A dead man looked back at him  
“Sherlock,” John replied, voice soft.

 

They stood staring at each other.  
Then they came together, lips seeking each other, clinging on as if they would fall off the edge of the world if they let go. Sherlock pushed his hands through John’s hair, covering his face with desperate kisses.  
“God, you’re beautiful,” John whispered, “and still as brilliant as I remember. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve dreamed of this moment.”  
“I thought you were dead,” Sherlock whispered, bitterness in his voice, though he clung to John as tightly as before. “I wept for you. I mourned you.”  
“I’m sorry,” John said, resting his hand on Sherlock’s cheek, forehead to forehead. “I’m so sorry Sherlock but I believed it was necessary. Forgive me?” Sherlock wanted to be angry, wanted to hate John for what he had put him through, but he couldn’t.   
“Yes. But do you forgive me? I’m engaged to another man.”  
“Oh yes,” John smiled, “I had forgotten that. Well you aren’t married yet.”  
“I won’t marry anyone except you.”  
“Good answer,” John smiled, pressing a tender kiss to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock moaned, pulling John closer, tangling his hands in his hair. John pulled back abruptly, looking over Sherlock’s shoulder.  
The sound of hoof beats forced its way into Sherlock’s subconscious.  
“Here comes your knight in shining armour,” John muttered.   
“Tell him I’ve already got one,” Sherlock said. John giggled.  
“I would but I quite like living.” Sherlock studied the surroundings, mind whirring, plans created and discarded. John watched him, eyes open and warm.  
“Do you trust me?” Sherlock asked, eyes searching.  
“Always,” John replied. Sherlock grinned, eyes alight, before taking John’s hand and pulling him down into the ravine.

 

They slid down the steep slope, both doing their best to remain upright and avoid the rocks that littered their path. They finally came to rest side by side, lying on their backs and breathing heavily.   
“That was the most ridiculous thing I have ever done,” John gasped.  
“And you became a pirate,” Sherlock said, grinning. John giggled and Sherlock never wanted him to stop.  
“I’ll have you know I’m a very good pirate. Besides, me being a pirate is nowhere near as ridiculous as you being a prince.”  
“Perhaps you’re right,” Sherlock said, staring up at the sky. “A lot has changed since we parted, hasn’t it?”  
“Not everything,” John replied, shifting onto his elbow to look at Sherlock. “Not the way I feel about you.” Sherlock smiled happily. John pressed a kiss to his lips before standing gingerly, testing his limbs for injuries and fining none.  
“Come on,” he said, offering Sherlock his hand and pulling him up.  
“Got your breath back?” Sherlock asked.  
“Ready when you are,” John replied. Hand in hand the headed off down the ravine, towards the Fire Swamp.


	9. The Announcement (Part Four)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the reviews, hope you enjoy this chapter. Next update Wednesday.

The Reichenbach Fire Swamp is famous the world over for both its size and the large population of bandits that live there. Although partial maps exist, all attempts made to map its entirety have failed; every cartographer that has tried has disappeared, murdered by bandits or swallowed up by the hungry earth. At its narrowest point it takes less than a day to cross, and yet even that brief journey is fraught with the dangers of quicksand, flame spurts and more brigands than any other area. To attempt to traverse it you would have to be very desperate, very frightened, very stupid or very brave.

Between them, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were very all four.

 

“Here, take this,” John said, removing from his belt a long dagger in its sheath. He stood close to Sherlock and began to remove his belt.  
“You know,” Sherlock lent down to whisper in his ear, “if you wanted to get me out of my clothes you only had to ask.” John snorted,  
“Very funny Sherlock, but this is serious. I have some ideas about what we’re going to face in here and I’d rather you were armed.” Sherlock remained silent as John settled the dagger on his hip, but pulled John in for a gentle kiss before he could back away.  
“What was that for?” John asked, smiling as he rested his hands on Sherlock’s slender hips.  
“I haven’t seen you for eight years,” Sherlock replied, “forgive me if I take every opportunity available to get my hands on you.” John pressed another kiss to his lips before stepping back regretfully.  
“Come on, I’d like to get back to the ship before I get old.” They walked deeper into the Fire Swamp side by side. Sherlock held John’s hand as if he couldn’t bear to let him go; he would be afraid this was all a dream if he wasn’t so logical. To banish these thoughts from his mind Sherlock asked John to tell him how he found him. John obliged and Sherlock lost himself in his warm voice.

 

They reached a fork in the road and came to a halt.  
“So which way?” John asked.  
“Your ship’s on the south coast, yes?” Sherlock replied.  
“Yes.”  
“Then we need to take the left fork.”  
“How can you be sure?” Sherlock’s smile was tight and false.  
“I have spent the last four years stuck in a castle with no access to my experiments but plenty of maps. The map of the Fire Swamp was by far the most interesting, and this area was fairly accurate.” John nodded but didn’t speak; there really wasn’t anything he could say.

 

The sun was low in the sky when they finally stopped.  
“We should rest,” Sherlock said. “We still have several hours left to travel.”  
“Good plan,” John replied, “we don’t want to be travelling through the Fire Swamp at night.” He led Sherlock over to a hollow at the base of a huge old chestnut tree and they sat down, sides touching, fingers still intertwined.   
“There is something I can’t work out,” Sherlock said.  
“Really,” John grinned, “I’ll have to make a note of the date and time for posterity.”  
“Ha ha, you’re a comic genius,” Sherlock’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “I cannot work out how you can be the Dread Pirate Murray, as he’s been marauding for 20 years, and you only left me eight years ago.”  
“It’s a fairly long story,” John said.  
“We have the time. I want to hear.”   
“Ok, well, everything I told you before, about healing that injured crew member was true. When I’d done all I could for him Murray took me to one side and said, ‘Alright John, we could do with a proper doctor on board, but don’t get comfy as I’ll most likely kill you in the morning. For two years he said that, ‘Good night John, good work, sleep well I’ll most likely kill you in the morning’. In the meantime I was learning fencing, knife throwing, anything anyone would teach me. Eventually two years ago Murray made me ship’s doctor, a full member of the crew with my own share of any plunder. Three months ago we were attacked by a rival pirate ship. During the attack I got an arrow in the shoulder while I was trying to stop a man bleeding out. It wasn’t a serious wound but it made me realise I didn’t want to die at sea, without seeing you again. I had amassed enough treasure for us to live comfortably for many years and, to tell you the truth, I had begun to feel guilty for my part in the raids. So I asked the captain for permission to leave. At first he was reluctant but when I explained about you he let me go and what’s more he allowed me to travel as the Dread Pirate Murray.”  
“I don’t understand,” Sherlock said.  
“Well, the current Dread Pirate Murray isn’t actually called Murray, his name is William and he inherited the name along with the ship. It’s the name that makes people surrender without a fight. Murray knew you were engaged to the Prince and he also had heard some rumours about Hope planning to kidnap you which he shared with me. He told me that playing the Dread Pirate Murray would help me find out more information and rescue you if the rumours were true. And he was right. I found out who was planning to take you, when and how.”  
“You are brilliant,” Sherlock said, stroking his fingers up and down John’s inner arm. “Obviously not as brilliant as me but, in your own way, you are extraordinary.”  
“Thanks, I think,” John smiled. They sat in silence for a time.  
“Can I see?” Sherlock asked suddenly.  
“What?”  
“Can I see your scar? From the arrow?”  
“Why?”  
“Curiosity.”  
“Oh, alright, I suppose, but it’s not pretty.” John un-tucked his black shirt and pulled it over his head, holding it to his chest but leaving his back exposed. Sherlock’s long fingers ghosted over the damaged skin of John’s left shoulder, eyes bright.  
“You were shot from above and behind,” he murmured, “you were bending over a patient, the shooter was standing some distance away. The arrow didn’t penetrate too deep, most likely an accidental shot, possibly the archer had his bow half-drawn when he was killed, the arrow hit you purely by chance.” Sherlock pressed his lips to the scar, feeling the different texture of the skin as a shiver rippled through John. “The wound healed cleanly and has had no great impact on your ability to use your arm.”  
“I was lucky,” John said.   
“No, I was,” Sherlock replied.   
“How so?”  
“If you hadn’t been shot, you wouldn’t have come back to me. If you hadn’t have come back to me, I would be dead now, or married to a man I don’t love. I can’t think which would be worse.”  
“The first one,” John said, voice thick. “But you’re wrong Sherlock. Even without the wound I would have come for you. I will always come for you.”  
“How do you know?” Sherlock asked, suddenly insecure. John shifted around to face him.  
“Because this is true love,” he said with a wry smile, “do you think this happens every day?” Sherlock shook his head. “No matter what life throws at us we will face it, together.” Sherlock smiled.  
“Turn back,” he said. John raised his eyebrow but turned back obediently. Sherlock drifted his fingers down six long scars on John’s back.  
“How did you get these?” he whispered. John stilled, took a deep breath.  
“Whip,” he said, finally. “On the ship, the first year I was there. Some food was stolen, I was accused and convicted. Punishment was a dozen lashes, six were deep enough to scar.” Sherlock remained silent, stroking his fingers gently up and down the scars. “Hideous, aren’t they?”  
“No,” Sherlock whispered, voice thick, “Beautiful.” John blushed,  
“Well, I’m glad you think so. Now can I please put my shirt back on, it’s getting cold.”  
“Oh I don’t know,” Sherlock said, smirking, “I was quite enjoying the view.” John scowled at him, but the twinkle in his eyes betrayed him as he pulled his shirt back over his head.  
“Come here,” he lent back against the tree and pulled Sherlock down onto his chest until his head rested over his heart. “Go to sleep.”  
“What about you?” Sherlock asked.  
“One of us needs to keep watch. I’ll wake you in a few hours so you can take over.” Sherlock would have argued but his eyelids were heavy, the physical and emotional stress of the day catching up with him. The last thing he heard before exhaustion claimed him was the strong and steady heartbeat of the man he loved, echoing through his head, soothing him into sleep.

 

John awoke to the sound of birdsong with a hand gently carding through his hair. His head was resting against Sherlock’s chest and he took a moment to enjoy the warmth of another human body for the first time in eight years. He shifted slightly and looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes.  
“Good morning,” he said.  
“Good morning to you too,” Sherlock smiled. “We really should keep moving.”  
“Must we?” John almost wined.  
“Unfortunately yes,” Sherlock said, laughing slightly. John sighed but sat up, stretching out his muscles, rotating his shoulder gently. He stood and offered a hand to help Sherlock up.  
“If we follow this path,” Sherlock said, “we should reach the edge of the Fire Swamp in about three hours.”  
“Well let’s get going then,” John started walking, Sherlock followed. John handed him some bread from the small bag he was carrying.  
“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock protested.  
“Eat,” John insisted. Sherlock ate.  
“We need to move quickly,” Sherlock said. “Moriarty will have worked out where we’ve gone by now.”  
“Do you think he’ll try to follow us through the Fire Swamp?” John asked.   
“Unlikely,” Sherlock’s voice was certain, “he prizes his own skin far too highly to attempt such a feat.”  
“Whereas we are clearly idiots with a death wish,” John snorted, making Sherlock grin.  
“Moriarty won’t follow us through the Swamp,” he continued. “Instead he will go around the outside and attempt to cut us off before we can reach the ship.”  
“Surely that will take too long.”  
“Ordinarily yes, but Moriarty’s hunting horses are the fastest in the world. If anything can outrun us, they can.”  
“We’d best move quickly then,” John said.

 

They were walking side by side but not touching when three large men emerged onto the path in front of them. John stopped, stepping slightly in front of Sherlock. The largest of the three men stepped forward.  
“This is our land,” he said, “you are trespassing. You will go no further until you have paid our toll”  
“The Fire Swamp belongs to no man,” Sherlock replied, “we will go where we please.” John rested his hand on his sword, expecting trouble. He was right.  
“If you will not pay with gold then we will take your blood instead. There are seven of us and two of you.” John turned his head slightly to see four more men step out of the trees behind them.   
“Well then,” Sherlock said, “why don’t you go and find some more men, maybe then it will be a fair fight, although I doubt it.” John saw the fury flash over the leader’s face and prepared for his attack.  
“On three?” he murmured.  
“One,” Sherlock said, resting his hand on his dagger.  
“Two,”  
“Three!”   
They moved in unison. Sherlock ducked the punch the leader threw at him while John sprang upon the men attempting to sneak up behind them, drawing his sword. Sherlock stood and landed a precise blow on the leader’s temple, felling him like a tree. Two men rushed him but he evaded them skilfully, dodging around the trees. John’s blade flashed as he backed up against a tree to prevent his attacker’s catching him by surprise. One man had already fallen to the bite of the cold steel and another was disarmed with a skill that sent him running in terror. The other two men followed, fleeing down the path; without their leader to spur them on neither wished to face this cold-eyed warrior. John looked for Sherlock but couldn’t see him.

“Sherlock!” he called, and heard a faint cry in return. He ran towards it, sword drawn, eyes scanning desperately until they found Sherlock. One man lay on the floor at his feet, felled by a blow to the head with a heavy branch. The final man had Sherlock backed up against a tree, hands around his throat, squeezing the life out of him. Without a second thought John snatched up the dagger from the leafy earth where Sherlock must have dropped it and stabbed the man, hitting his lungs through his ribs with medical precision. John pushed the bandit out of the way, dropped his sword and dagger and caught Sherlock as he fell, gasping for breath. John sank to the floor, cradling Sherlock against his chest, stroking his ebony curls, whispering nonsense to him as his lover fought to control his breathing.

Eventually Sherlock relaxed deeper into John’s embrace.   
“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice raspy by steady.  
“No,” John replied, “you?” Sherlock snorted inelegantly, “beyond the obvious I meant.”  
“I think my right arm is bleeding, but other than that I’m fine,” Sherlock replied.   
“I’d better take a look at that. Can you sit up?” John asked, worry creeping into his tone.  
“I think so,” Sherlock said, and this lack of certainty worried John more than anything else. He helped Sherlock to shift, resting his back against the tree. He rolled up the sleeve on Sherlock’s right arm without protest, revealing a thin cut, about two inches long, oozing blood sluggishly.  
“You won’t need stitches,” John said, “it’s not too deep, must have just caught you.” He ripped off a length of his shirt and began to bandage the wound.  
“That’s why I dropped the dagger,” Sherlock said, voice stronger, “he caught me with his sword, I dropped it, and he then dropped his sword in favour of strangling me.” John tied off the bandage on Sherlock’s arm and pulled down the sleeve to cover it.  
“Let me look at your neck,” John said. Sherlock tilted his head back and John shifted closer, resting his right hand on Sherlock’s jaw and running his left over the sensitive skin of his neck.  
“It doesn’t look too bad,” he said, “I think I stopped him before he could do any permanent damage.” John lent in and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s neck, right on his pulse, feeling the blood pump rhythmically beneath his lips.  
“I could be wrong,” Sherlock whispered, “but I thought modern medicine had progressed beyond ‘kissing it better’.”  
“Shut up,” John smiled. “Are you ok?”  
“Yes, I’m fine. You?”  
“I’m good.”  
“You have just killed a man.”  
“Yes, yes, I know,” John sat back on his heels. “Well he wasn’t a very nice man.”  
“No,” Sherlock mused, “no I suppose he wasn’t.”  
“Besides, it was a choice between him and you,” John met Sherlock’s eyes. “When faced with that choice, I will always choose you.” Sherlock lent forwards and captured John’s lips in a gentle kiss.  
“Come on,” John said against his lips, “if you feel strong enough we should keep moving.” John stood and pulled Sherlock to his feet. He bent to retrieve his weapons, sheathed his sword and returned the dagger to Sherlock, before leading the way back to the path and out of the Fire Swamp.

 

The sun was high in the sky when the ground became solid, the trees thinned and the smell of salt air replaced that of wet earth. They had reached the edge of the Fire Swamp. Sherlock turned to John and smiled, joy in his heart.  
It was short lived.  
“Surrender!” Moriarty’s voice rang out across the clearing. He sat on his great white stallion, the Count beside him, guards behind him, a storm cloud blocking out the sun. John drew his sword and pushed Sherlock behind him, calling out.  
“You wish to surrender to me? Very well I accept.”  
“You play a good game,” Moriarty said, “but playtime’s over, Daddy’s had enough now. Give me back what is mine and I may let you go.”  
“I am not yours and I never will be,” Sherlock said. Fury flashed over Moriarty’s face,  
“Surrender!” he shouted again.   
“Death first!” John shouted.   
“That can be arranged,” Moriarty said darkly. He gestured and the guards fell on John and Sherlock. John fought like a lion but the guards were too numerous. They pinned him down as Sherlock was bound hand and foot, dragged away and slung over the back of Moriarty’s saddle.   
“See you around, John Watson,” Moriarty cried as he rode away. The guards pulled John over to where the Count sat on his horse.  
“I have orders to return you to your ship, Doctor Watson,” the Count said. John quirked his mouth in a rueful smile, holding his head high.  
“We are men of action, Count,” he said quietly, “lies do not become us.” The Count smiled approvingly. John’s eyes flicked to where the Count’s hand rested on his leg.  
“You have six fingers on your right hand,” he said. “Someone is looking for you.” He said no more as a guard struck him over the head and he fell into blackness.


	10. The Festivities (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is about the point where I was writing late at night and discovered that the name of our favourite Consulting Detective creates a brilliant typo. Thanks for reviewing and I hope you enjoy.

John awoke gradually, keeping his eyes closed as he took stock of his situation. His chest was cold, his shirt had been removed, and his back was colder where he was lying on a stone table. He could feel chains around his ankles, wrists and across his waist. He felt rather than heard someone move around him. He opened his eyes.  
“Where am I?” he said, voice weak from disuse. A woman with wild hair and a disgusted expression entered his field of vision.  
“The Pit of Despair,” she said. “Don’t think about escaping, you’re hundreds of feet below ground, surrounded by solid rock. And don’t dream of rescue; the Prince, the Count and I are the only people who know how to get in here.”  
“So I’m here until I die then,” John said stoically.  
“Until they kill you, yeah,” the woman said.  
“And who are you?” John asked.  
“Sally Donovan,” the woman replied, “prison guard.”  
“And part-time murderer?” John said mockingly.  
“I have nothing to do with the killing. I keep the prisoners alive. What the Prince does with them afterwards is not my concern, I just follow orders.”  
“So what’s the Prince going to do to me?”   
“I have no idea,” Donovan replied, “but you ran off with his freak of a husband-to-be, I doubt it’s going to be pleasant.”  
“Torture?” Donovan nodded. “I can handle torture.” Donovan shook her head.   
“You may think you’re brave,” she said, “but nobody withstands the machine.”

 

Sherlock lay upside down on a chair, hair brushing the floor, feet on the wall. There was a knock on the door.  
“Go away!” he shouted. The door opened.  
“Is that any way to talk to your only brother?” Miracle Mycroft walked into the room, umbrella swinging from his hand. He had been the King’s Miracle Man for many years now, though Sherlock suspected he had far more influence than his position implied. Although they were brothers they were not close by any stretch of the imagination, seven years separated them and Mycroft had not lived at Holmes Manor since he was sixteen. However, the last four years spent living together in the castle had forced them into an uneasy truce.  
“What are you doing here, Sherlock?”   
“If you have to ask that, Mycroft,” Sherlock said scathingly, “then you are even less intelligent than you appear. I have been locked in here by my intended and will remain so until my wedding day.”  
“I comprehend that perfectly,” Mycroft replied calmly. “What I meant was why aren’t you trying to rescue John?”  
“What can I do, locked in here?” Sherlock righted himself, unable to conceal his desperation.   
“You can use the gifts you have been given to plan the rescue of your lover. I will find others to do the legwork.”   
“Who?”  
“I was hoping you could make some suggestions.” Sherlock sat still, considering, hands pressed together beneath his chin.  
“The men who kidnapped me, Lestrade and Angelo. They may not be as intelligent as us, but they are bright enough, and both excellent fighters.”  
“But they kidnapped you,” Mycroft said. “Do you trust them?”  
“I believe they are both honourable men,” Sherlock pressed his lips to his hands. “John spared their lives; they will believe they owe him a debt. You can use that as leverage.”  
“I could,” Mycroft said, “but I won’t. I have something far more effective.” He stood. “Keep faith, little brother, for I believe true love will triumph in the end.”  
“You always were ridiculously sentimental, brother,” Sherlock said, but he did not protest when Mycroft lent in to kiss his forehead before leaving the room, swinging his umbrella.

 

Late in the afternoon the Prince and the Count walked through the palace gardens, towards a small copse by the perimeter wall.  
“I must confess,” the Count said, “Holmes has impressed me. He has shown a degree of courage that I had not expected.”  
“Yes,” the Prince replied, “and better still the people like him now as well. Before they believed he was an arrogant know it all, but now, now he’s the man who survived the Fire Swamp, he’s a prince they can be proud of. You know, when I hired Hope to murder him on our engagement day I thought that was clever, but it will be soooo much more moving when I strangle him on our wedding night. Reichenbach will be blamed and the people will demand we go to war. Nothing can stand in my way.” Outwardly the Count agreed, but inwardly his thoughts strayed to the man currently incarcerated on the fifth level of the Pit of Despair. If any man could thwart the Prince’s plan, Moran suspected it was John Watson, though not for much longer if he had any say in it.  
“Are you coming down to the Pit?” Moran asked. “Watson is awake, so I’m starting him on the machine tonight.”  
“You know I love to watch you work, really it thrills me,” the Prince said, “but I have my country’s five hundredth anniversary to arrange, my wedding to plan, my husband to murder and Reichenbach to frame for it. I’m swamped.”  
“Get some rest sire,” Moran said. “I’ll bring you my report in the morning.” They parted ways, Moriarty walking back to the castle and Moran into the copse. Sally Donovan stood by an open trap door at the base of a massive oak tree.  
“Good evening, Sir,” she said, bowing slightly.  
“Donovan,” the Count nodded, “is he ready?”  
“As he’ll ever be,” the Count shot her a look. “Yes sir.”  
“Good,” he stepped through the trap door and into the Pit of Despair.

 

John was still chained to the table, but now suction cups had been attached to his hips, his chest and his temples, held in place by thick black leather bands.   
“My my,” Moran said, leering, “I thought you were pretty before, but black leather certainly adds to your charms.” John gritted his teeth but remained silent. Moran stared at him, and then changed the subject as Donovan walked into the room. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Took me half a lifetime to create.” He stroked the giant wooden structure with a waterwheel at the centre in the corner of the room and turned to watch as Donovan attacked black tubes to each of the suction cups. “As you may have realised, I have a deep and abiding interest in pain, in fact I’m considering writing a book on the subject. So I would appreciate it if you were completely honest with me about how the machine makes you feel. As this is our first attempt, I will use the lowest setting. Don’t want to throw you in at the deep end.” He nodded to Donovan.  
She pushed the lever from zero to one.  
The water wheel rolled into life.

John had been prepared for torture. His first year on the Pirate ship Revenge had been hard; every man had questioned his right to be there, had treated him as a slave, beaten him, whipped him, and he had not cried because he knew how to handle pain. All he had to do was separate his mind from his physical body, picture himself with Sherlock. He would remember his ebony hair, his pale skin, his velvet voice and his beautiful, brilliant brain. He would picture them talking together, running together, holding each other. And the happiness this brought to him was greater than any pain, any torture John had ever felt before. His love would be enough to make him able to withstand this machine.

It wasn’t enough.

As soon as The Machine was active the pain ripped through him, leaving him breathless, unable to think. Every time he tried to take his mind away a fresh bolt of pain ripped through him, making him unable to think of anything beyond his physical body. He opened his mouth in a soundless scream, struggling against his bonds, trying to escape the relentless pressure of the suction cups.

And then suddenly it was over.

The tension drained out of his body as the Count began to speak.  
“As you know, the concept of the suction pump is centuries old. Well, really that's all this is except that instead of sucking water, I'm sucking life. I've just sucked one year of your life away. I might one day go as high as five, but I really don't know what that would do to you, so let's just start with what we have. What did this do to you? Tell me. And remember, this is for posterity, so be honest. How do you feel?”  
And John Watson, who had endured whipping, beating and long separation from his true love, whose strength and pride were only eclipsed by his heart, who would never show weakness in front of his tormentor, who had never been broken, John Watson began to cry.

And found he could not stop.


	11. The Festivities (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearing the end now, so thanks for your support. Please let me know what you think.

Prince Moriarty was sat slumped behind his desk when Anderson, the Captain of the Guard, barrelled in and clumsily bowed low.  
“You sent for me, Your Highness.”  
“Yes,” he said straightening up, “I have reason to believe that soldiers from Reichenbach are plotting to kill my fiancée on our wedding night.”  
“My sources have revealed no such threat,” Anderson said. Moriarty glared at him. Anderson backtracked quickly, “But I’m sure your sources are more reliable than mine.”  
“Nice save,” the Prince growled. “They are using The Yard as their hide out. I want it emptied before my wedding day. Do you understand?”  
“Yes, sire,” Anderson gulped, “but it won’t be easy to…”  
“Well form a Brute Squad then!” Moriarty shouted. “Now get out of my sight, your very presence is draining my IQ.” Anderson turned and scuttled out of the room. Moriarty grinned; Anderson was mostly spineless but he was obedient and lashed out on those weaker than him in the most entertaining ways. He lent back in his chair, satisfied. Things were progressing rather well, if he did say so himself.

 

Although the crime rate within the City was impressively low, not far beyond its boundaries was The Yard, an inn infamous for being the hideout of petty criminals and gambling addicts. The inhabitants of The Yard were left more or less to their own devices for two reasons; firstly the landlord was more than willing to give generous contributions to the crown on a monthly basis, and secondly Anderson was terrified to go within half a mile of the place after an incident involving a confidence trickster, a fake diamond ring and a very irate swan. So when Prince Moriarty ordered him to empty The Yard, Anderson did so from as far away as possible. He formed a Brute Squad, pointed them in the direction of The Yard and told them to empty it by any means necessary. The sort of man who is attracted to the Brute Squad may not be big on brains, but will jump at the chance of some mindless destruction, so this was overall a very successful tactic. They tore through The Yard like a group of humanoid whirlwinds, meeting no resistance.  
Well, almost no resistance.

Lestrade sat slumped on the floor of his room, bottle in one hand, sword in the other.  
“Do you hear me, Hope?” he cried, words slurring until they were almost unintelligible. “I’m waiting. You always said, when a job goes wrong, go back to the beginning. Well this is where it began, so this is where I will stay.” A Castle Guard, brandishing a sword almost bigger than he was edged into the room.  
“You there!” he shouted, voice quavering.   
“You can keep your ‘you there’” Lestrade growled, stumbling to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall. “My name is Gabriel Philippe Lestrade, and I am not moving.” He threw himself at the Guard, waving his sword without fineness. He was so drunk that a seasoned opponent would have had no trouble subduing him, but the Guard had only been on the job for a week and, frankly he had not anticipated doing anything other than standing on walls watching people all day. He dropped his sword and ran so fast his feet almost didn’t touch the ground. Lestrade pursued him, screaming a war cry, until his progress was checked by a solid bulk and a large hand grabbed his wrist, twisting it until he dropped his sword. Lestrade struggled for a moment, but froze as he looked up and met the steady gaze of his captor.  
It was Angelo.  
“Friend,” Lestrade said, sagging in relief. “I’m glad to see you again.”  
“Same here,” Angelo said. “I tried to look for you, but you had already gone. I couldn’t think of anything else to do, so I came back here.”  
“Back to the beginning,” Lestrade said, smiling gently. “Oh Angelo, I’m tired, so very very tired.” His eyes began to drift shut.  
“Come on,” Angelo said, “I have a place where you can rest.” He wrapped his arm around Lestrade’s waist and half led, half carried his friend out, into the gathering darkness.

 

Sherlock sat on the chair, a variety of knives resting on the table beside him. He wasn’t really supposed to have them, but the guards were stupid and Sherlock took great delight in pickpocketing them when they got annoying. Choosing one, he threw it at a smiley face he had drawn in red ink on the opposite wall. It missed the face entirely. Frowning slightly he picked up the next knife, feeling its weight and balance carefully before throwing it. It hit just inside the red ink outline. Better, but nowhere near as good as John. John had made it look so easy, like he didn’t have to think about it, but then John had had years to practice. Sherlock threw more knives, aim improving each time but still not perfect. He paused before he threw the last knife. Maybe motivation was an important factor. He imagined the smiley face was Moriarty’s and threw the knife. His aim was true; the knife struck right in the centre of the face. Sherlock smiled in satisfaction. He heard movement outside and threw himself out of the chair, moving over to the window. Mrs Hudson bustled in, carrying a tray laden with food.  
“I though you could do with some feeding up dear,” she said. “You’re so skinny; a strong wind might blow you away. I brought some tea, bread, pork pie, cake and those biscuits you like. But just this once mind; I’m your prospective step-mother-in-law, not your housekeeper.” Sherlock kept his back to her as she put the tray on the desk and began tidying up a bit, “How do you make such a mess? I know boys will be boys but even so.” She turned and saw the wall. “What have you done to my bloody wall?!” Sherlock spun around and grinned, wide and fake.   
“Just tea for me, Mrs Hudson.” Mrs Hudson considered protesting but didn’t. Poor thing had enough to deal with if the gossip was true, without her telling him off as well. She took the knives with her when she left though, if only to protect her poor walls.

 

Angelo took Lestrade to his small restaurant five miles outside the City. After he had awoken from his enforced slumber on the Reichenbach boarder he had followed Hope’s trail until he had found his empty body. With all due ceremony he had buried the corpse of his former employer, but not before he had riffled through his pockets to look for loose change. What he had found was more than he could have wished for; Hope had been carrying all the money they had been paid in advance for the abduction of the prince Sherlock. Angelo had taken it, returned to Baker Street and bought the little restaurant he had always dreamed of. He had left Lestrade’s share untouched, more in hope than expectation, but he was overjoyed to see his friend again. Lestrade had not had as much luck. The shock of his first defeat in many long years had toppled him into the bottle. Angelo nursed him back to health with a combination of good food and ego stroking, which Lestrade saw through but was incredibly grateful for. It was as they were sitting together late at night in the dining room of the restaurant, that they received an unexpected visitor.

The man was dressed impeccably and carrying a closed umbrella, despite the continued perfect weather. A woman dressed equally well stood behind him, eyes focussed on a scroll. He walked into the restaurant and stood in the centre, surveying the room as if he owned it. His gaze slid over Angelo and Lestrade, who sat frozen at one of the small tables.  
“You are the men who kidnapped my brother,” he said. His voice was smooth and emotionless. Lestrade made to stand, resting his hand on his sword. “Oh you needn’t worry,” the stranger said, waving a hand lazily, “I do not intend to arrest you. I haven’t even brought any guards with me. No, I have a proposition for you.” Lestrade and Angelo exchanged glances.  
“What kind of proposition?” Lestrade asked suspiciously.  
“One that will be of great benefit to the both of us,” the stranger replied. “As you know, my brother is engaged to marry the prince. However, he is in love with another man, the man in black who defeated both of you and who is now the prisoner of the Prince. I want you to rescue him, and help him remove Sherlock from the palace before his wedding.”  
“That’s the day after tomorrow!” Angelo said. “That’s impossible.”  
“Is it?” the stranger asked, raising an eyebrow. Lestrade considered for a moment.  
“No,” he said finally, “it’s not impossible. Just very difficult.”  
“In what way?”  
“Well, we’ve pulled off jailbreaks before, no problem,” Lestrade said, leaning back in his chair, “but Hope did all the planning. He was the brains, without him we’re just brawn.”  
“I think you undervalue your own intelligence. However, I will provide you with all the information you will require to enter the Pit of Despair and the Palace.”  
“That’s as may be, but what’s in it for us?” Lestrade asked carefully. The stranger examined the tip of his umbrella, affecting nonchalance.  
“Sherlock tells me your father was murdered by a man with six fingers on his right hand, yes?” Lestrade nodded. The stranger replaced his umbrella on the ground, leant forward slightly. “I know where he is. If you give me your word that you will carry out my commission, I will tell you.” Excitement swelled in Lestrade’s heart, but his exterior was calm.  
“What’s to stop me giving you my word and then running off as soon as you tell me who he is?”  
“Firstly you like to believe you are an honourable man,” the man said, a hint of scorn creeping into his voice, “if you give me your word you will keep it. Secondly, in order to find the man you seek you will have to enter the Palace. In order to enter the Palace you will need to rescue the man in black, he will be the brains to your brawn. So, Gabriel Philippe Lestrade, will you free the man in black and rescue my brother from a fate worse than death?” Lestrade looked to Angelo who nodded, before turning back, making eye contact with the stranger.  
“I give you my word,” he said.  
“Excellent,” the stranger smiled. An assistant placed a scroll into his outstretched hand. “Here are the plans for the Pit of Despair and the Palace, as well as security information. They are as accurate as I can make them, however I must warn you that the Prince is somewhat paranoid, and may increase security at any time. I wish you both the best of luck.” He turned and walked out, his assistant following. Lestrade ran to the door, hand on his sword.  
“The name!” he cried. “Give me the name of the man who killed my father.” The stranger turned back and smiled.   
“The name is Count Sebastian Moran.” Lestrade watched as the man walked away, swinging his umbrella.

Angelo and Lestrade spent the night planning, and in the morning the locked up the restaurant and headed to the City. They reached the Palace when the sun was high in the sky, and they walked the perimeter of the walls, looking for the small side gate shown on the plan the stranger had given them. The Palace grounds were larger than they had anticipated and it took them several hours to find it. Once they did they sat a short distance away, surveying the area.  
“Do you recon you could break down that door without drawing too much attention to yourself?” Lestrade asked quietly.  
“Yeah, if we waited till dusk,” Angelo replied. “It’s not actually a very strong door. That tends to be the way; they spend all their time fortifying the front gate and forget about the back door.”   
“Then for now we wait,” Lestrade lent back against the wall. “Tonight, we make our move.”

 

Prince Moriarty was walking through the Great Hall when Anderson scurried over to him.  
“Sire,” he bowed so low his nose almost scraped the floor. An expression of disgust crossed Moriarty’s face briefly.  
“Rise and report,” Moriarty said, not easing his swift pace. Anderson hurried to catch up.  
“The Yard is empty, Sire.”  
“How many men guard the castle gate?”  
“Thirty of my best, Sire, and I have the only key.”  
“Double the guard, my prince must be safe.”  
“Of course, Sire,” Anderson attempted to bow, tripped over his own robe and fell flat on his face. Cackling, Moriarty swept away, leaving Anderson lying on the floor, cradling his bleeding nose. The Prince strode to Sherlock room, unlocked the door and entered without knocking. Sherlock was sat on the wide windowsill, arms around his knees, looking out over the Palace grounds. Moriarty stared at him hungrily.  
“I had hoped you would have seen reason by now,” he said. “Your John is far away from here by now and he is not coming back.”  
“Is he still alive?” Sherlock asked, turning to look at the Prince. Moriarty nodded reluctantly. “Then he will come back to me.” Fury flashed across Moriarty’s face as he stepped forward until he stood right behind Sherlock. He lent down to whisper into his ear,  
“What makes you so certain?”  
“He gave me his word.” Moriarty grinned.  
“And you believed him? You seem to be forgetting, Sherlock darling, that he left you for eight years, and for four of those years he let you believe he was dead while he gallivanted about on a pirate ship. I hardly think he is a man whose word can be trusted.”  
“You’re wrong about him,” Sherlock’s voice was calm, certain. The smile fell from Moriarty’s face,  
“We’ll see about that.” He tore out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

Moriarty stormed through the Palace and out into the grounds, lit by the fading sun, face stony, heart set. The trapdoor was open and he flew through, running down, down, down into the bowels of the earth, right to the fifth level of the Pit of Despair. The Count was sat at his desk but the Prince didn’t acknowledge him, instead moving to stand over John where he was still connected to the machine.   
“I had intended to leave you alive for a while,” he said, smiling unpleasantly at the fury in John’s eyes, “I would have enjoyed breaking you. But you can’t be allowed to continue, you just can’t. Because you truly love each other, and I can’t be having that. Sherlock must be mine absolutely. So you have to die.” In a flash of momentum he moved to the leaver and threw it up to 50.   
The wheel began to turn.  
John’s body arched of the table, muscles taught as bowstrings, pain lancing through every single nerve. His voice tore from his throat in a terrible scream, the sound of a heart breaking. Moriarty watched with hungry eyes as John’s body convulsed, straining against its bonds, thrashing desperately, trying to escape from the all-consuming pain.  
And then, finally, everything was still.


	12. The Wedding (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I's sorry for the gap between updates, things have been a bit mental recently. Please review :D

The day of the wedding dawned bright and clear. Church bells rang in celebration and swifts flew screaming through the azure sky. Lestrade sat at the window, tapping his sword hilt impatiently.  
“What is taking so long?” he asked.  
“You can’t rush a Miracle Man,” Angelo replied, “otherwise you get rotten miracles.”  
“Well at this rate the wedding will be over before we’ve even reached the Palace, and then it won’t matter how dead he is.” Lestrade began to pace the room. “I mean, does he want us to save his brother or not?”  
“I can assure you I most certainly do,” Mycroft said, walking into the room. “And it is to that end that I have laboured through the night to resurrect John Watson.”   
“And have you?” Lestrade asked.   
“See for yourself.” Mycroft moved away from the door to reveal John Watson, smiling and very much alive. He moved forward, leaning heavily on the cane in his hand.  
“You’re limping,” Lestrade said.  
“Well he’s been mostly dead all night,” Angelo grinned.  
“The limp is purely psychosomatic,” Mycroft interrupted. “After his ordeal his brain doesn’t believe his body is entirely unharmed so it has created a limp. It should pass in time.”  
“Yes, I am here you know,” John said crossly. “I can hear you.”  
“My apologies,” Mycroft said smoothly. “Now I will leave you to your planning.” He departed silently.  
“So,” John said, “I understand I have you to thank for getting me out of that hell hole.” Smiling gently he looked so far removed from the man in black that Lestrade was momentarily taken aback.  
“We were in your debt,” he said. “You spared our lives when you could have killed us.”  
“Well that makes us all square then,” John’s smile broadened. “I know you know my name but I like to introduce myself. John Watson.” He placed his clenched fist over his heart in the warrior’s salute, a gesture Lestrade appreciated and returned.  
“Gabriel Lestrade,” he said, “and this is my companion, Angelo.” John nodded at Angelo, the clapped his hands together.  
“Right,” he said, “I believe we have a rescue to plan.”

 

In the Palace, Sherlock lay in his bed, staring at the birds outside his window, envying their freedom. He didn’t move when he heard Mrs Hudson bustle into the room.  
“Good morning, Sherlock dear,” she said cheerfully. “Big day today. Are you excited?”  
“Indescribably,” Sherlock said dryly. Mrs Hudson clucked.  
“Well come one dear, get out of bed. You’ve got to get ready for you big day.”  
“The wedding is not until this evening, Mrs Hudson. And besides, I do not intend to marry today.”  
“Well, it will take time to get your hair and everything done,” Mrs Hudson said, before registering the second half of Sherlock’s little speech. “What do you mean; you don’t intend to marry today?”  
“John will save me,” Sherlock said simply.  
“Oh dear,” Mrs Hudson said gently, coming over to sit on the bed beside Sherlock, stroking a hand through his hair. “I know you love him, but he’s long gone. Hadn’t you better make the best of it and marry Moriarty.”  
“John promised he would always come for me,” Sherlock sounded so small that Mrs Hudson’s heart broke a little. She hoped against hope that Sherlock was right, that this John would come for him, because she feared what Sherlock would do if he was forced to marry the Prince that evening.

 

John, Lestrade and Angelo formed a council of war in the library. The plan of the Palace was spread across the table, covered with annotations in a variety of coloured inks.  
“The easiest time for us to get in will be in the hustle and bustle before the wedding,” John said. “How many men guard the gate?”   
“Thirty of the best,” Lestrade replied.  
“It won’t be easy,” Angelo said nervously.  
“Nothing worth doing is easy,” John said, taking a deep breath. “Alright, I think I have a plan for getting in, but once we’re in it’s going to get tricky.”  
“I’ll say,” Lestrade said. “Once we’re in how do I find Count Moran? Once I’ve killed him, how do I find you again? Once I’ve found you, how do we escape?”  
“I don’t know!” John exploded. Lestrade and Angelo were taken aback. “Sorry,” John apologised, “but we don’t have time to come up with a proper plan, so once we’re in we’ll just have to play it by ear. Ok?”  
“Ok,” Lestrade nodded.

 

The day passed slowly. Sherlock sat in his room, allowing attendants to push and prod him, distant and unresponsive. John, Lestrade and Angelo sat in Mycroft’s manor house, impatiently awaiting the time when they could make their move. Moriarty sat in the throne room, greeting wedding guests, waiting for the moment he could throw off his mask and wrap his hands around his husband’s beautiful, pale neck. Count Moran was overseeing the decorating of the banqueting hall, eager to return to his Prince’s side. Donovan sat on the fifth level of the Pit of Despair, dreading the moment when she would have to tell the Prince that the body of the man in black had disappeared.

Everybody was waiting.

 

The sun had just set when John, Lestrade and Angelo slipped into the Palace grounds through the still damaged side gate. They remained in the shadows, going slowly to compensate for John’s limp, moving ever closer to the main palace gate, carrying a shaded lantern. They stopped behind a large rockery overlooking the gate.  
“That’s more than thirty,” Angelo said worriedly.  
“Shouldn’t matter,” John said.  
“Are you sure this will work?” Lestrade asked.  
“As sure as I can be, yes,” John replied, frustration creeping into his voice. “Do you have any better ideas?”  
“No,” Lestrade admitted.  
“Well then,” John turned to Angelo. “Are you ready?”  
“Yes,” Angelo said, adjusting the hood on his holocaust cloak.  
“Good luck,” Lestrade said, gripping his shoulder. Angelo nodded and began to climb to the top of the rockery.

The guards at the gate were beginning to light their torches when a terrifying, booming voice echoed across the lawns.  
“I AM THE DREAD PIRATE MURRAY! THERE WILL BE NO SURVIVORS!” The guards looked around, terror clawing at their hearts.  
“Stand your ground!” Anderson cried, voice high and panicked.  
“MANY ARE HERE, I AM HERE! BUT SOON, YOU WILL NOT BE HERE!”  
“Now?” Lestrade asked.  
“Not yet,” John shook his head.  
“THE DREAD PIRATE MURRAY TAKES NO SURVIVORS! ALL YOUR WORST NIGHTMARES ARE ABOUT TO COME TRUE!”  
“Now?” Lestrade said.  
“Light him!” John cried. Lestrade smashed the lantern at the base of Angelo’s cloak. Flames licked up the black material right to the hood, dancing around Angelo’s face without burning him, making him look like a daemon emerged from the hellfire. He began to walk towards the guards.   
“THE DREAD PIRATE MURRAY IS HERE FOR YOUR SOULS!” The guards screamed in terror and scattered.  
“Stand and fight you cowards!” Anderson screamed to no effect. Within moments he was alone in front of the gate. Angelo cast of the burning cloak and approached him, flanked by John and Lestrade. They backed Anderson against the gate. He looked up at them, terror clear in his eyes.  
“Give us the gate key,” John demanded.  
“What gate key?” Anderson said weakly. John and Lestrade drew their swords. Angelo raised his fist. “Oh you mean this gate key.” Anderson fished in his clothing, eventually withdrawing a great iron key.  
“Thank you,” Lestrade said, taking the key, “Angelo, if you would.” Angelo struck Anderson over the head, knocking him unconscious.

 

The sun was about to set. Sherlock left his room accompanied by Mrs Hudson. He wore black trousers and a white tunic, both embroidered with silver thread, and on his proud head rested a thin silver diadem. He looked perfectly beautiful, like a doll on a shelf, but his eyes were clouded and distant. He walked silently to the Great Chapel by Mrs Hudson’s side with a steady tread. But his heart was revolted by what he was about to do; he could hear it crying out for rescue but he ignored it. He walked down the aisle to the Prince’s side without hesitation, took his hand without a shudder of revulsion and heard the opening words of Archbishop Dimmock without a tremor.   
“Marriage is a thing of great beauty, a dream to which we all can aspire, a joining of two hearts and minds into one.” Shouts from outside permeated the ancient brickwork of the Chapel. The Prince gave a nod and guards left the room. He motioned for Archbishop Dimmock to continue. The Archbishop fumbled in his notes for a moment.  
“Ummm, ah yes. The union we are here to witness is doubly beautiful, as it includes our great Prince Moriarty, heir to the throne of Baker Street, a man of indescribable strength and wisdom. A man whose beauty and intelligence is matched only by that of his husband-to-be, Sherlock Holmes. Their union will be one of love and equality, an example to all.” More loud shouts came from outside. Moriarty looked furious. “So you must treasure your love.”  
“Skip to the end!” Moriarty cried. Archbishop Dimmock was so shocked he dropped his notes. He bent down to scrabble for them, aware of Moriarty’s baleful gaze.  
“Have you the ring?” he asked nervously. Moriarty nodded to Count Moran, who stepped forward. The noise from outside increased. The guests looked around nervously. Moriarty grabbed the ring from the Count and thrust it onto Sherlock’s finger, scraping the knuckle painfully. Moriarty looked into Sherlock’s eyes and his anger grew at the smugness he saw there.  
“You think this is you darling John, come to save you,” he hissed, “but you’re so very very wrong. Your John is dead. I killed him myself.”  
“Is that so?” Sherlock voice was controlled though his heart was screaming. “Then why is there so much fear in your eyes?” Moriarty had no answer. He turned back to the Bishop.  
“Continue.”  
“Do you, Sherlock…”  
“Pronounce us married!” Moriarty shouted. Dimmock paled and said uncertainly,  
“I now pronounce you bound in holy matrimony.” Sherlock’s heart felt cold. Moriarty grabbed his arm and led him to Mrs Hudson and two guards.  
“Take him to the honeymoon suite. I’ll be there as soon as I’ve dealt with this distraction. Don’t wait up darling.” He patted Sherlock on the cheek and swept out of the room, Count Moran in tow. The guards grabbed Sherlock’s arms and marched him away, deep into the heart of the Palace.

 

Lestrade hurried down the corridor, John limping in his wake with Angelo by his side.  
“Slow down!” John shouted.  
“No!” Lestrade cried, turning to face them, “I will not slow down. After thirty years I can finally avenge the murder of my father. There will be blood tonight!” He continued down the corridor at a furious pace. John nodded to Angelo.  
“Go with him. I need to do this alone.” Angelo bowed his head and gripped John’s shoulder before hurrying after Lestrade. John watched him go before turning and walking deeper into the Palace.

Lestrade did not believe in gods; if there was a god his father would not have been murdered in front of him when he was eleven, if there was a god he would have found the murderer fifteen years ago. He did however believe very strongly in ghosts. He had always felt his father’s ghost watching over his shoulder, supporting him through his training and long search. Sometimes this knowledge had made him ashamed; he hated the thought that his father had seen what he had done with Hope, but on that night he felt great comfort. His father felt closer than ever before. He could almost hear his voice telling him which doors to open, which corridor to run down. So when he came across Count Moran and five guards he was ready for them.  
“Kill him,” the Count said. The guards charged.  
One.  
Two.  
Three.  
Four.  
Five.  
Lestrade despatched them all with ease, one after the other. He assumed the en guarde position.  
“Hello,” he said. “My name is Gabriel Philippe Lestrade. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

The Count ran.

 

Sherlock walked calmly to the honeymoon suite, flanked by guards on either side, Mrs Hudson walking ahead.   
“Strange sort of wedding,” she said. “It seemed to skip all the important bits, but then you young people are always in such a dreadful hurry. You never stop to enjoy anything.” Sherlock nodded distractedly but wasn’t really listening. He was distancing himself from his heart, turning back into the man he had been before John had found him again. When they reached his door he kissed Mrs Hudson on the cheek.  
“What was that for dear?” she asked, smiling gently.  
“You’ve been so kind to me,” Sherlock said, voice carefully controlled. “I appreciate it.”  
“Oh, hush dear,” Mrs Hudson was blushing, “I only did what I felt was right. Now you get in there, your husband will be along soon.” Ice fell into Sherlock’s stomach at her words but he nodded calmly and went into the room. He knew how to make himself forget.

 

Lestrade tore down the corridor like a bat out of hell, gaining on the Count. He could see the tails of the Count’s tunic flying around the corner ahead of him and he sped up, rounding the corner in time to see the Count run into a door and slam it, locking it behind him. Lestrade threw himself at the door but it wouldn’t budge. He ran back and hit it again but it had no effect. Lestrade screamed out in frustration at being so close and yet unable to reach the Count. He was stopped by a heavy hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Angelo. Lestrade watched as Angelo backed up, ran at the door and knocked it down with a mighty blow.  
“Thank you,” Lestrade said before running through the door.  
“Good luck!” Angelo cried. He looked around. John was looking for Sherlock, Lestrade was looking for the Count, but Angelo had nothing to do. He looked around the corridor before choosing a random corridor and following it, away from the heart of the Palace.

 

Sherlock closed the door of the bridal suite gently, leaning against it for a second. Taking a breath he walked across to the desk, opening the drawer and uncovering the secret compartment in the base of it. Inside this compartment rested a small wooden box which he had placed there some days ago. He put the box on the desk and opened it. Inside a needle, syringe and glass bottle full of clear liquid rested on deep red velvet. He prepared the syringe deftly, hands steady. He rolled back his sleeve, revealing a dozen tiny scars, each one the remains of a time when the boredom and pretending had become too much. He rested the needle against the sensitive skin on the inside of his arm. He slid his eyes shut.  
“You know, I knew you were an idiot, but I didn’t realise you are quite so stupid.” Sherlock’s eyes flew open. He dropped the needle and stood, tunic flaring our behind him as he turned.

John was standing next to the door!


	13. The Wedding (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the delay, things have been a bit mental around here. Please let me know what you think.

The Count ran desperately through the corridors, trying to stay ahead of his pursuer. He could no longer hear the Frenchman behind him so he slowed down, listening intently. He entered an underground room for storing furniture, eyes scanning for signs of his enemy. His sharp eyes picked out a dark shape huddling behind a table. He approached on tiptoe, drawing a knife from his boot. As soon as he had a clear shot he threw it.   
The blade struck true  
The dark shape toppled over.  
The door slammed shut.  
The Count spun to see Gabriel Lestrade standing by the door, sword drawn and a grin on his face.  
“Good thing I memorised that map of the Palace,” he said, “or I would never have found that secret passage. Now, shall we begin?” The Count raised his sword but did not approach.  
“You must be that little French brat I taught a lesson to, what thirty years ago,” he said, voice steady. “I should have killed you then. But I suppose there’s no time like the present.” Lestrade smiled but didn’t reply. The Count frowned but didn’t waste any more time. He charged at Lestrade and the battle was joined.

 

“John!” Sherlock cried, striding across the room. John limped to him and met him halfway. Hands sought hips, lips sought lips and they lost themselves in each other for a while. Sherlock broke away, rested his face in John’s hair and whispered,  
“That limp is psychosomatic you know.”  
“Yes I know,” John laughed. “I’ve had a hard day.”  
“It’s just got better,” Sherlock grinned. John kissed him again.  
“Don’t think you’ve gotten away with that,” John said, nodding at the bottle of clear liquid. “Later, we will be having words.”  
“I look forward to it,” Sherlock murmured, voice sending shivers down John’s spine.  
“We need to get out of here first,” John said weakly. Sherlock nodded and began to lead John towards the door.

 

The Count dominated the fight. Even after all his years of training, Lestrade had never managed to completely shut away his emotions, and in this, the most important fight of his life, his anger was pushing him into making stupid mistakes. The Count scented blood and pressed his advantage. His sword bit into Lestrade’s shoulder. The pain sharpened Lestrade’s senses, snapped him out of his anger, made him realise just how much was at stake. The Count pushed him into a pile of chairs, scattering them. He touched his wound, hissing at the pain. The Count stood over him,  
“Did you spend all your life searching for me, only to fail now? I think that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. Fantastic.” Lestrade struggled to his feet. “Are you still trying to win?” Lestrade limped away from the chairs, sword raised.  
“Hello,” he whispered. “My name is Gabriel Philippe Lestrade. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” He struck out, the Count barely blocking his blade.  
“Hello. My name is Gabriel Philippe Lestrade. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” He pressed the attack, pushing the Count backwards, towards a long table.  
“Stop saying that!” the Count shouted.  
“Hello!” Lestrade shouted, sword flying so fast it could barely be seen. “My name is Gabriel Philippe Lestrade. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” He backed the Count against a long banquet table, disarming him with a flick of the wrist.  
“Offer me money,” Lestrade said.   
“Yes,” the Count said desperately. Lestrade stabbed him in the shoulder.  
“Power too.”  
“Yes.” Lestrade flicked his sword across the Count’s face, leaving a line of blood in its wake.  
“Offer me anything I ask for,” Lestrade’s eyes were grim. The Count had never begged for anything in his life before. He begged now.  
“All that I have and more. Please!”   
“I want my father back you son of a bitch.” Lestrade thrust his sword into the stomach of Count Moran, and watched as the life drained out of the murderer of his father, staining his hands red.

 

Sherlock led John through the Palace, making use of all the secret passageways and servant’s corridors. John moved easily, limp forgotten in the joy of following Sherlock once again. They came out of a small door at the base of the West Tower and ran out into the moonlit grounds.  
“Will you forgive me John?” Sherlock asked over his shoulder.  
“Why?” John asked, grinning. “What terrible sin have you committed?”  
“I’ve married another man,” Sherlock said, slowing down to let John catch up with him. They walked side by side along the bank of a still lake. “I didn’t want to. But it all happened so quickly.”  
“You’re not married,” John smiled. Sherlock looked put out.  
“I assure you I did. There was a Bishop and everything.”  
“Did you say ‘I do’?” Sherlock tilted his head to one side, considering. Then he grinned in realisation.  
“No, we skipped that part”  
“Then you aren’t married. You didn’t say it, you didn’t do it.” Sherlock lent in to kiss John but John stopped him. “Wouldn’t you agree, your highness,” he shouted over Sherlock’s shoulder.  
“A technicality that will shortly be remedied,” Moriarty’s voice rang out across the grounds.

Sherlock stepped in front of John.  
“Let him go,” he said. “This is between you and me.” Moriarty laughed.  
“If you really think that then you are not as clever as I thought you are. I confess it took me a while to realise, but then love really isn’t my area of expertise. I find it, messy.” He studied the confusion on Sherlock’s face. “You still don’t see? Then I’ll enlighten you. You are his. You always will be his, even if he’s dead, you’ll still be his. And I can’t be having that.”  
“So you’re going to kill us both,” Sherlock said.  
“Oh no, I won’t kill you. I’ll burn you. I’ll burn the heart out of you.” Moriarty replied. “I’ll kill him, slowly this time, to make sure. But I’ll keep you, for a while at least. It will be so much fun to break you.” In a rapid movement Sherlock drew John’s sword and held it under Moriarty’s throat, forcing his head back.  
“What if I killed you now?” he growled.  
“Well then you’d get to cherish the look of surprise on my face. Because I would be surprised Sherlock, really I would. And perhaps just a teensy bit…disappointed. And of course you wouldn’t get to cherish it for very long.” He pointed behind back towards the Palace. John turned to see a guard standing on the top of the West Tower, crossbow pointed straight at his heart.   
“If either of you move,” Moriarty said, “my guard will stop John Watson’s heart. So be good.” He walked past Sherlock to stand in front of John. “What does he see in you?” he asked. “You are so boring, like a faithful dog, you follow him everywhere. People do get so attached to their pets don’t they?” He turned back to Sherlock but before he could move away John grabbed him around the neck and spun around placing Moriarty between him and the guard as he fired. The crossbow volt flew through the air and buried itself deep in Moriarty’s shoulder. The Prince screamed out in pain as John dropped him and threw himself at Sherlock, knocking them both to the ground. They lay still, expecting further fire, but the only sounds that broke the silence were Moriarty’s whimpers.

 

“John,” Sherlock whispered, “are you alright.”  
“I’m fine,” John breathed, mouth right next to Sherlock’s ear. All the tension finally drained out of Sherlock’s body and he became aware of John’s weight pressing down on him, making breathing difficult.  
“As much as I love you,” he said, “I’d prefer it if you didn’t squash me.”  
“Sorry,” John said, quickly rolling off Sherlock. They both sat up and turned to face each other.  
“That thing you did,” John said. “Offering yourself if he would let me go. That was…good. Stupid, but good.” His fingers ghosted across Sherlock’s forehead, his palm cupped his cheek and he lent in to kiss him.  
“I appreciate that you have been separated for some time, however this is neither the time nor the place gentlemen.” Sherlock groaned, resting his forehead against John’s.  
“Mycroft, why must you always ruin the moment?”  
“You ought to be nice to him,” Lestrade’s voice came from where he was standing over Moriarty, holding his sword to his throat. “Without him there wouldn’t have been a moment to ruin, his man killed the guard after he shot Moriarty. Good to see you’re still alive though.”  
“You too,” John smiled at him as he and Sherlock stood. “You were successful?”  
“My father’s soul can now rest,” Lestrade said solemnly. “His murderer, Count Moran is dead.” Moriarty tried to stand but Lestrade increased the pressure on his blade. “And you’ll be going to join him if you don’t sit still. Shall I despatch him for you?” Sherlock shook his head.  
“No,” he said, “Death is too easy. I want him to be destroyed, to live the rest of his life knowing that he was beaten.”  
“Well how are we supposed to do that?” Lestrade asked.  
“I know,” a female voice came from the direction of the tower. Mrs Hudson came into view. “Tell the people of his plan to murder Sherlock in order to start a war with Reichenbach. They will never let him become king then, they will demand that Prince Jim becomes king instead.”  
“Mrs Hudson is quite correct,” Mycroft said.  
“Very well then,” John said. Mycroft gestured and two of his guards carried Moriarty away. John looked at all the people gathered by the lake. “Where’s Angelo?” he asked.  
“I’m here,” Angelo came into view, leading four great horses.   
“Where did you get those?” Lestrade asked.  
“I was wondering around and I found the stable,” Angelo replied, “and I thought that these horses would speed our escape. So I took them.”  
“Are we free to go now?” Sherlock asked Mycroft, tone implying that they were going to leave regardless of his brother’s answer.  
“As you wish,” Mycroft said. Sherlock paused, and then nodded to him. He walked over to Mrs Hudson.  
“Will you be alright?” he asked.  
“Oh bless you dear,” she replied bashfully, “of course I will. Don’t you worry about me; you just go with your young man. He loves you, you know.”  
“I know,” Sherlock smiled. He lent down to kiss Mrs Hudson on the cheek.  
“Go on,” she said. “May fortune smile kindly on you.” Sherlock nodded and walked to where John, Lestrade and Angelo sat on the horses. He mounted up and together the thundered off, away from the Palace and into the sunrise. They didn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the point at which the book and the film end. I have in fact written an epilogue, because I can't resist tying off lose ends :D I'll post that very soon.


	14. The River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, the final part. Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed; I loved writing this and I hope you enjoyed reading it.

Sherlock sat by the side of the river, hidden behind the trailing leaves of a weeping willow. He was experiencing an unusual moment of stillness, both mentally and physically, as he watched the water slip past beneath him. He remembered his mother’s voice telling him ‘You can never step in the same river twice’ with an air of sadness that he had never before understood. He did now. He lent back against the grey bark of the tree, closing his eyes. After so many years of feeling so tense, of carefully constructing his mask, is was exhilarating to just be. He didn’t have to pretend to be good anymore, because John would love him no matter what. But rather than make him lose all inhibitions whatsoever, that knowledge made him want to be better, which surprised him. John had so much power over him, was at once his greatest weakness and his strength, and he didn’t even realise it.

Sherlock heard the willow curtain part but didn’t open his eyes. John came to sit beside him, resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, who wrapped an arm around him.   
“What are you thinking?” John asked.  
“Who says I’m thinking anything?” Sherlock smiled, eyes still closed.  
“It’s you, you’re always thinking. You never stop.” Sherlock heard the smile in John’s voice and desperately wanted to see it. He opened his eyes. John smiled up at him.  
“Hello,” he said.  
“Hello,” Sherlock replied. “What were you doing?”  
“Helping Lestrade and Angelo set up camp. When I looked up and saw you gone I was worried, so I came to find you.”  
“There’s no need to worry; there’s no one else here, and I would never leave you.”  
“I know that,” John said quickly, “I know. It’s just, well after everything that’s happened I have a right to be a bit protective for a while. Besides, you seem to attract trouble no matter where you go. I thought I might have to fish you out of the river or something.”  
“That would be unnecessary,” Sherlock said with dignity. “I can swim perfectly well on my own.” John stared at him for a second, and then dissolved into helpless giggles. Sherlock joined in with a deep chuckle that reverberated through his chest and into John’s head.

Eventually their laughter calmed. John sighed.  
“God I’m happy.”  
“Me too,” Sherlock said, sounding surprised. John smiled.  
“I’m glad.” Sherlock pressed a kiss to his head, then lent back against the tree.  
“I presume you know what Lestrade and Angelo are planning to do. You care about that sort of thing.”  
“So do you or you wouldn’t be asking,” John said. “Angelo owns a restaurant some way outside the city, when everything’s calmed down a bit he’s going back there. I think Lestrade’s going with him; Mycroft mentioned something about making him Captain of the Watch.”  
“He’d be perfect for that,” Sherlock interjected.  
“Yes, but like I said, they’ll have to wait for everything to calm down first. Once Prince Jim and Princess Molly are married and crowned they’ll be able to go back.”  
“We can’t though.”  
“No,” John’s voice was thoughtful. “Did you want to?” Sherlock thought for a moment.  
“No,” he said finally. “No. I want to travel. I spent four years looking at maps, I’d quite like to see how the real places measure up.”  
“And what if you get bored?” John asked.  
“Well there’s always crime,” Sherlock replied. Catching John’s shocked look he laughed. “I wasn’t suggesting I become a criminal, that’s far too predictable. No, I was thinking that, when the official Watch are out of their depth, which is always, I could step in to solve the crime for them.”  
“A sort of, Consulting Detective,” John suggested.  
“Consulting Detective,” Sherlock repeated, trying it out. “I like that.”  
“It suits you,” John smiled. “Come on, Lestrade will be getting worried, you know what he’s like.” He stood and helped Sherlock up. They headed back to the camp, not holding hands but close enough that their shoulders brushed with every step.  
“And where do I fit in?” John asked “In your consulting career?” Sherlock stopped and turned John to face him.  
“You’ll be my doctor,” he kissed his forehead, “my entertainer,” John huffed a little laugh as Sherlock hissed his cheek, “my companion,” Sherlock kissed the corner of his mouth as John rested his hand on his neck, stroking his ear, “my John.” Their lips touched.

 

Their first kiss had been the greatest kiss of all time. On the official scale, this kiss was nowhere near as important, but to John and Sherlock it meant everything. This kiss held forgiveness, compassion, love, respect and a hundred other feelings too delicate and fleeting to name. But most of all it held a promise. Because they both knew there was no such thing a happily ever after, the life they had chosen would not be easy. Sherlock would still get bored; John would still risk his life to save others. On cold days John’s shoulder would ache and his leg would burn with a limp that had no right to be there, and in black moments Sherlock would still crave clear liquid in a glass bottle running through his veins. One day one of them would die, and the other would be left behind alone, because every story is a tragedy if you follow it through to the bitter end. But that was ok. Because every time Sherlock was cruel, every time John stormed out, they would think of this moment, of the rush of the water, the rush of time, and they would come back together, closer than before. Because this was true love, and that doesn’t happen every day.


End file.
